Culture of Paranoia?

I've been "home" in the U.S. for two days, and I can't believe how paranoid everyone here seems. Just watching the Today Show, I just learned that family and friends are the most likely perpetrators of identity theft, so beware of saving your credit card information even on your home computer. You think you're safe at home, but the evil fingers are stretching towards you...they're out to get you and you'd better never let down your guard. As I stood there stirring my three different dairy products into my coffee (because we have choices here other than leche polvo), I couldn't help but mentally sigh in exasperation. Why are we so worried about everything here? Does the Today Show really have nothing better to talk about than the about 2% chance that someone in your family is going to use your credit card to buy a brand spankin' new treadmill 3000? We never worried about that in Mexico...it took a pending drug battle to get people off the streets, and even that only worked for a day. Are Mexicans fearless or are U.S.ens just paranoid? WE can afford the luxury of paranoia because we have nothing real to worry about. At least not here in comfy, decadently unconcerned Lancaster County.

Jaula...

Ella se siente inquieta, agitada. No tiene ganas de sentarla aquí en la cama, ni redactar su tarea. The bottom of her laptop scalds her bare knee as always, but for once instead of cursing her inadequate scrap of metal and plastic, she half smiles in empathy. At least she’s not alone in her brain-boiling catharsis. La computadora esfuerza a alcanzarla mientras ella cambia su idioma espontáneamente y sin razón. No puede pensar en español ni en ingles, porque su ingles se siente veneno, asesinando sus palabras españoles. Ella trata de aplastar el ingles que zumba y vuele fuera de control dentro de su cráneo. Como moscas, las palabras juegan con ella…traviesas y caprichosas, sabiendo perfectamente lo que hacen. A la vez, su español no viene…está atrapado por la otra, encerrado en algún rincón, ocultado en el fondo de su mente. Siente como si fuera una muda, con letra que implora a alejarse de su cabeza y reventar…libre y fluida, sin intentar. Pero no…ella, en su recamara cargada está detenida—aguada y sudorienta sin palabras de ingles ni español. Algún día, le dice ella—Algún día, voy a soñar, pensar, respirar en español. Algún día sí, aunque no sea hoy.

TOQUE DE QUEDA!

Carol!

Have you not heard about the toque de queda in Cuernavaca? I was chatting online with a friend on Thursday night, trying to make plans for this weekend, when she told me that there was a "toque de queda" decreed by the drug cartel. She told me she wasn't going out this weekend and that I shouldn't either. She sent me the notice (I'm attaching it although I'm sure you've already seen it) that the supposed narcos were circulating on the internet. I asked her if it was narcos that wrote it and she said she didn't know, did I believe it? I starting tracking down my other Mexican friends who were online and asking them about it and one of them told me the same thing, that he wasn't going out this weekend either because of the toque de queda. Another friend pointed out to me that the notice specifically said that the narcos were only concerned with fighting amongst themselves, and didn't want to cause any trouble or harm to anyone not involved. I decided to wait and see what developed the next day.

Yesterday morning I woke up and went to school like normal, and by now most of my excitement from the night before had worn off. I don't even think I mentioned anything about it to Rashelle, which goes to show how unconcerned I was. No one at school mentioned it to me, so I figured it was all just a hoax. I ran into my teacher later when I was coming back from the Espiga, and asked her if she had heard anything. She was in the dark about it but told me to wait while she called her husband who knows someone who works for the government. Her husband told her that yes, there was a toque de queda in place for this weekend, that no one should be in the streets after 8 pm, and that there may be people wearing black in the streets, but that was all she knew. By now I had decided to stay in for the night. I met up with Caila and we went to the Fayuca to buy some movies for a movie night sleepover at her house. There, I ran into a friend of mine, Juliana, who sells bootleg DVDs, and before I could even get in a word of greeting, she grabbed my arm and warned me not to go out at night. She told me to be in my house by 7:30, and not to wear black on the streets. She seemed really agitated, and I asked her if she was nervous about it. She told me she didn't know what she was going to do because she only got off work at 8:30 and she was wearing a black T-shirt. I told her to be careful, and asked her how she found out about it. She told me that a mutual acquaintance of ours has a friend who works for the cartel, and she had heard it through the grapevine. By now I was kind of shocked at how much of this was circulating only by word of mouth. I hadn't heard anything from you or Charlie, so I figured you might not even know about it. Hortensia hadn't told me anything either, so I figured it hadn't been in the news. Caila and I had scoped out a newspaper stand to see if we could find anything about it in the papers, and we couldn't find a single article. Granted, we aren't the most proficient Spanish newspaper readers, but I'm sure I would have been able to tell if one of the headlines had mentioned anything about a toque de queda. By now it was about 6 pm, and we were just finishing up making our movie selections when Juliana pops up next to me to tell me that they are closing the stand immediately. We had about ten movies between us and I asked if we had time to preview them. She shook her head but insisted that if there was anything wrong with them I could come back and see her and she'd exchange them. I've known her for a few weeks and trust her enough to let that slide, so I paid for the DVDs and was off. I noticed as I made my way toward the street that many of the stands seemed to be tidying up as if they were about to close as well. We arrived at Caila's apartment at about 6:30, and ran into Chris, her neighbor, a very opinionated history professor on sabbatical. He was just on his way out to a pozole restaurant and didn't seem concerned at all about the impending DOOOOOOOOOOOMMM!!! We were hungry too, and my curiosity was gnawing at me to check out the scene in the centro, so we tagged along with him for dinner. The pozole and the service were amazing...at the end of the meal our mesero brought us our change but then seemed hesitant to leave our table. He turned back to us with something like concern and trepidation blotting his features, and I think what he told us will stick with me longer than any other memory of this experience. He said that as a Mexican, he feels ashamed of what is happening in his country. For forty-two years, he has lived in Cuernavaca and nothing like this has ever plagued his city before. He seemed very determined that we should know that this isn't the Cuernavaca he knows and loves...that this is an aberration and an abomination. With that, he bid us goodbye and urged us to take care on our way home, as people were already starting to evacuate the streets.

Sure enough, the trek down Galeana seemed like a different scene entirely, as if we were all actors in a play who had changed costume for the second act. The kiosk was practically deserted...for a Friday when usually there is not an empty seat to be found, it was eerie to see only about twenty people lounging anxiously on the benches. They seemed not quite certain whether they were just relaxing in the kiosk or participating in an act of defiance against the most dangerous/powerful forces in the city. I suspected that in about an hour, even these last few brave stragglers would be safely en casa. The bus stop on the corner of Galeana and Hidalgo seemed particularly congested, and amidst the crowd, three police officers huddled together against the glass of the shoe shop. Chris told us not to make eye contact with them, that they were antsy and nervous. As I tried to inadvertently catch a peek at their faces, I couldn't help pitying them. I've always felt a certain aversion and reproach towards the police here, but tonight they seemed less menacing and more like vulnerable young soldiers about to do battle with an enemy that none of them could see...two of them didn't look much older than me, and I couldn't imagine what they must have been feeling.

We continued down Galeana and took a left at the alley full of bars which would usually be
hopping at this time on a Friday. Instead, most of the overhead doors were pulled down and tightly sealed against any mischief that might dare to unfold. We finally made it back to the apartment, where we bid farewell to Chris who was turning in for the night. We still had about 15 minutes before 8 and since the little shop across the street was already closed early, we took a quick trip up to the Oxxo on Humbolt. The convenience store was bustling, probably because it was the only enterprise that had ventured to stay open. As Caila and I waited in line with our arms full of munchies, we noticed a indifferent looking man sporting a black t-shirt standing in line next to us. Caila and I exchanged knowing glances...probably more out of a need for vindication than any concrete evidence did we simultaneously decide that this was a gun-toting narco. Okay, maybe there was no evidence of any weapon on him...but I think the electric calm before the storm was turning us into thrill seekers. We paid, and I warned the cashier to take care since the shop wasn't closing until 1 am. He didn't seem too worried. With that, we were off, and safely interred ourselves for the night behind the white walls of Caila's apartment building. Neither of us felt like sleeping, and we spent hours watching chick flicks and trying to piece together the bits of information we could glean from the internet about the toque de queda. We finally crashed at about 2 am, without a hint of anything out of the ordinary occuring nearby.

We woke up this morning and eagerly embarked on an internet search to see what had unfolded overnight. Surprisingly not much. I don't know what we were expecting to find...notices of dismembered bodies dappling the zocalo, or news of a victor on this would-be battlefield...? It occured to me as I was sitting comfortably in my pajamas on Caila's fuzzy carpet that I was playing--I was having fun with this. It didn't scare me, it thrilled me. And I could afford this feeling because I am leaving in a week. If this is the calm before the storm, I won't have to bear it...I'll be thousands of miles away. I began to chastise myself, but then I realized that it's no use feeling guilty. Remorse won't cork this avalanche...what will be will be.

There are people here that I care about now. I get to leave, but those who remain...well, what about them? This isn't a game for them...this is life. This is reality.

Mi Vida Mexicana...

Vine
Palabras en mano
Sueños en otro
Para descubrirte—sí
¿Sabías lo que ibas a revelar?
¿Sabías que a mi te expondrías?
¿Y así mi misma también?
Me derretiría en ti
Me perdería, me romperías
Ya sabía
Eso creí
Y sí, aquí estoy rota por ti
Por tu sol hirviendo la piel
Por tus piedras despedazando las pies
Por tu aire secando la lengua
Sí, me has desangrado
Busca cada gota—¿Hay más?
¡Sí, quítatelas!
No las voy a reclamar—no
Nunca jamás
Ya sabes que son tuyos—
Mi sangre y mi ser

Voluntad...

The other day I was sitting in Starbucks with Rashelle and somehow we fell on the topic of big business (perhaps our location was what prompted this discussion :P). I often get frustrated when talking about the banality of big cooperations in Latin America. It strikes a chord in me when people speak of capitalism as if it is some evil entity that takes advantage of the poor. I will be the first to admit that capitalism has its faults...obviously to have the rich, there will always be the poor to support them. However, I would just like to pick a bone right not that has been irritating me for a while. We look at big business and often blame the problems of Latin America on such things as foreign investment which takes capital out of the country, etc. For me, big businesses are not the problem. Well, perhaps they are the problem, I just hate when people blame "corperations" for doing what corporations do. Businesses, at least in my opinion, are like machines...their purpose is to make a profit in whatever way possible. It's the point of their existence, it's integral to their being. We can complain and point fingers and say that big business takes advantage of/exploits/deprives lower classes/destroys small businesses, etc, but I feel that to some extent that's similar to accusing a wall of being a wall. You don't stand there and complain that a wall is tall/flat/hard/impenetrable, because the wall doesn't care. And why should it? It's goal as a wall is to to keep some things out and others in--it wouldn't be true to its nature if it didn't do this. Or perhaps, less abstractly, it's like accusing a leopard of killing and eating smaller animals. You don't stand there and tell a leapard not to be hungry. Of course it's going to look for food and eat other animals; that's it's nature. It's most primal goal is to survive. You can point your finger all you want, but that's not going to turn a leopard into a guinea pig. It's pointless to accuse something of being what it is. It just is. Businesses have a purpose: to maximize profits, of course they're going to behave accordingly, whether it means creating banana republics or investing in maquiladoras because the labor is cheaper.

On the other hand, if we look at big business not as a machine or as an entity, but as a conglomeration of people with agency and free will and autonomy, then maybe we can start asking for accountability. Because really, who is responsible for the welfare of humans but humans themselves? Sure, businesses are organisms with goals, but these impersonal, faceless businesses are made up of people with names and faces and "voluntad." What is the point of humanity if we don't feel some sense of accountability and empathy towards others?

Lluvia

I sit here in a house that has almost become a home to me...just in the past few weeks have I crept out of my room and ventured down into the rest of the casa. Inch by inch, it's opened up to me. I remember when I first came here and was afraid to bring my laptop down into the kitchen to work, and when I felt I needed a reason to visit any part of the house other than my bedroom. Now here I sit, the last one at the kitchen table, reveling in the solitude, in the dutiful ticking of the clock that Jodi left as a gift to us, in the patient dripping of the rain spent on the patio, in my belly full of chapata and lindor balls and cafe soluble. This country is in me now...in my belly, in my skin, in my mind, and my soul. This family is in my heart. Almost my family. Almost my house. Almost my trampoline. Almost my kitchen table and my pan dulce and my green plastic water glass and my yellow porcelain mug that I suspect was "borrowed" from Cemanahuac. Almost my Lucky and my Daisy. Almost my sisters, almost my mother. No, perhaps not just almost.

Ennui

Pegajoso
Entre mis dedos
Debo lavarlos, pero
El azúcar me ha hecho floja
Lánguida
Sólo queda la mitad del postre
Manchando la pura blancura del plato
Ahora
Llega ella
Pero no me sobresalta
Se ha unido con el paisaje, y es
Nada
De interés
Como indios bailando en el zócalo
O murallas ancianas
Agotadas
Ella, con sus chucherías inútiles
Me insiste comprar algo
Mientras sus ojos me piden otra cosa
No puedo reconocer la-
La que quisiera entender
¿En dónde podría empezar?
No lo sé
Por eso, he aprendido ignorancia
Soy la poeta aguada
Apática
Suspirando “!Que triste!” y,
Quitando la mosca del plato
Sigo engullendo mi pastel

Genaro

Well, here we are in 3 de Mayo. Daisy told us to come here to see the beautiful artesanias, but really I've seen enough to last me a lifetime, and I think Caila agrees with me. Instead, we trudge for about ten minutes (which seems like an hour) up the hill (that feels like a mountain). By the time we arrive at Casa Hogar, I'm dripping sweat, and the odor of sewage wafting from the open gate does nothing to encourage me to enter. But, as I have learned, interesting smells are as much a part of Mexico as corn tortillas and 5 peso ruta rides. And if Caila lived and worked here for two months, I'd better be brave enough to enter. So, in we go. Caila shows me the small apartment where she used to live right next to the girls' room. About ten girls share the cement-floor dormitory where the scent of rot and garbage permeates the air, and flies congregate on the single sheet covering the king-sized bed right inside the door. I don't know how many girls share that bed, but I know I wouldn't want to sleep there.


Caila chats with some of the girls while I venture outside and meet Genaro, who is mastering some kind of toy that looks like a cross between a top and a yo-yo. The trick is to wind the string around the base and then with a quick flick of the hand, fling it to the ground and get it to spin. "Me ensenas?" I ask him, and he presses the toy into my palm. With my clumsy hands I awkwardly try to imitate Genaro's finesse. The top doesn't seem to want to cooperate and instead plops and pirhouettes stubbornly across the dusty cement. Genaro hops after it, winds the string and plants it in my hand once more, positioning it carefully and hooking the ring around my thumb. "Asi," he instructs, and with a seemingly effortless gesture launches his imaginary top into the air. I try to copy once more, and again it clopples with a lifeless thud, bouncing into the patch of gnarly parched grass nearby. Genaro sighs and throws a hopeless look my way, shrugging his shoulders as if to say, "I tried." I plop down on the cement staircase next to Alejandro, who seems to understand my chagrin as he reads aloud from a tiny Gospel of Mark. As I sit here, watching Genaro ply his magic toy that I can't seem to master, I wonder what other tricks and talents are lying dormant within him. If he can manipulate this little plastic top to glide gracefully over the sidewalk at 7, what could he be capable of at 15, or 21, or 35? He is so young...how will he know that he is something sacred? Will someone be there to push him, to tell him he can do anything? Will he figure it out on his own?

What kind of agency does he have here, as an "orphan" whose parents are too poor to care for him? Can Abrigo del Dios give him the resources he needs to rise above its dusty concrete walls? I don't know, or maybe I am afraid to know the answer.

Hija del Diablo.

Well here I am in the Zocalo, sitting on a bench with my backpack and school supplies, of course not doing homework like usual. UGH! I hate this feeling of almost ennui-I just want to give up before I start anything. I can't think right now because there's and old man sitting near me who for some reason is really bothering me. I wish he would go away and I feel guilty for it. Out of nowhere, he just sat down next to me and started talking--it's really hard to understand his Spanish and he keeps creeping closer and closer. I wish I knew what his intentions are, but I just can't read people here and it's so frustrating. They say that the first step to conquering any problem is recognition, right? Well, here I go.
Let's start with this old man--why am I so uncomfortable? He's not hurting me, he's no doing anything wrong. But...his teeth are rotten, he smells strongly of body odor, which I catch a whiff of every time the breeze blows in my direction. His toes curl under with those yellow, cracked nails that I see so often here. To me, he is physically repulsive. But more than that--I could overcome physical disgust if it weren't for all the other cultural factors pushing and pulling me to disassociate myself from him. Maybe it's leftovers from the million times my mommy ordered me as a child to beware of the big bad wolf. Maybe it's the three almost attractrive muchachos staring at me from across the zocalo. Their eyes grate into me and make me feel exposed...to what, I don't know. I want them to know I don't want this old man's attention, and at the same time I am scolding myself, wondering why I even care what they think. Maybe it's proxemics--inch by inch, he is intruding into my personal space. Maybe his rules aren't the same--maybe he has no sense of personal space and has no idea where my own boundaries lie. Is it a cultural difference or just a personal preference? I don't know--but I do know that I wish he would stay in his "proper place" hugging the armrest on the opposite side of the bench...or better yet, go find an empty bench.

Some kind of profound conclusion seems appropriate at this point...but honestly I have not the slightest clue what that conclusion may be. Should I seek to cast of my qualms and just have a friendly conversation with this man? Or should I surrender to my gut reaction and take off across the zocalo? These reactions to people are built into my being...they form part of me and I don't know how to rid myself of them. And is that even a valuable objective, to cast off my "prejudices"? Thus far they have kept me out of trouble...for instance...I met a man in Jardin Revolucion the other day who spent a substancial amount of time in the U.S. Out of nowhere, he just plops down next to me (I am minding my own business, trying to write a blog I think) and starts talking. He looks a little rough around the edges, which in itself is not disconcerting. Although he speaks English, it is very blatantly the kind of English you learn in the not-so-shiney parts of town. In the course of the conversation, I find that he has spent some time under lock and key, although the cocaine in his vehicle at the time was most certainly "planted," and that on a separate occasion, he broke his leg fleeing the police. At this point, I feel like it is probably time for me to go. He gives me his number and invites me to his home in Lagunilla. I'm not going to call this guy and I don't think there are many people who would advise me to do so. In a way, I am stereotyping him as a drug dealing bum, aren't I? But being able to assign him a certain status allows me to make sense of our interaction and draw the conclusion that spending time with this guy is not the safest thing for me to do. Sure, there is a chance that this is just a very unlucky man who has nothing but the best intentions, and I could be missing out on a beautiful friendship. On the other hand, if something shady were to go down, I would only have myself to blame for ignoring the social clues that my framework for interpreting interactions gave me. So I guess my conclusion is this...there is a fine line between being "safe" and being a cold hearted snob. I'm not sure exactly where that line is drawn...throw in the factor that I am trying to negotiate my way through a foreign culture and it is understandable that a few social clues may be lost in translation, or exagerated in translation, or completely distorted in translation. Maybe here in Cuernavaca, it's completely normal for a scruffy elderly man to sit down and strike up a conversation with a young woman. Maybe a Mexican woman would have felt completely comfortable and at ease in my situation. I'm not Mexican, though, and although I can try to understand how things work here, I am still U.S.en at my core. Okay I'm going to have to quote Emerson for moment, which I don't think I've ever done before in my life. "If I am the devil's child, I will live then from the devil. No law can be sacred to me but that of my nature. Good and bad are but names very readily transferable to that or this..." To be what I am, to be U.S.en, is not good, bad, shameful, or meritorious. It's just who I am. To be Mexican is the same. All I can do is live the way I know how...I can't restructure my entire framework for viewing the world just because I'm afraid I might not be giving a prospective friend a chance. I am who I am.

I suppose now I've made myself out to be the cold-hearted snob who's afraid to try anything new or even poke her toe out of her comfort zone. I feel the need to defend myself, and to clarify that these experiences I am having, although at times irritating, are not negative as a whole. On the contrary--although I may be frustrated at times, I feel myself changing and growing into something strange and beautiful with every twist and turn. I've had my ups and downs, and without a doubt I know that this journey is far from over. I can't wait to see where it takes me.

Lidia

I just came across this blog which I wrote while I was studying abroad in Cuernavaca, Mexico. I hesitated to publish it then because it deals with some things that were going on in my host family's house, and I didn't want to rock the boat. However, here I am over a year later and I want to share how I felt about Lidia...

April 2010

This past week has been positively a crucible...(I hope I'm using that word correctly) I don't know where to begin to piece everything together. I know it must fit somehow.

I guess today I just better pick one teeney element and stick to it. Otherwise my brain quite possibly might shatter into a million pieces.

Lately I've been struggling to understand the relationship between Lidia (our housekeeper) and the Peraltas. Lidia is my age, in fact we were born two days apart--I could comment on the irony of how our lives are parallel and yet completely divergent, but that's another blog. The question for tonight is...what is Lidia's "place" within the Peralta household, and to what extent is the relationship between Lidia and the Peraltas representative of the larger social hierarchy in Mexico?

Lidia is quiet and timid, at least as I have seen her working in the house. She walks lightly and speaks little, so our friendship has been a gradual one. Last week, I returned from my first visit to Jardin Revolucion disappointed that all the grass was fenced off and complained to Lidia that I miss the landscape of my home. Her face lit up as she described to me a nearby park with grass in abundance--one of her favorite places. After timid suggestions on both ends, we finally met in the middle and decided that we would go to said park together on Sunday, her only day off. I'd been trying for weeks to convince Lidia to come out with us at night, but she always insisted for some reason or other that she couldn't, so this was a great leap forward. Not two minutes after my triumph however, Lidia turned to me and whispered, "Es un secreto." I asked her why and all she would tell me is that Hortensia wouldn't like it if she knew Lidia and I went out together. Later, she confessed to me that she and Jodi had also spent time together on her Sundays off, and that that had also been their "secreto." I was puzzled. It seemed positively medeival that an employer would have any say in a housekeeper's personal life. But I agreed to keep our excursion a secret. On Saturday morning I realized that I wouldn't see Lidia again before our planned outing, so I tiptoed downstairs with a note in hand asking when and where we should meet. I felt a little ridiculous sneaking around behind Hortensia's back as if I were doing something wrong, but I wanted to respect Lidia's wishes. Hortensia was on the phone in the living room, so I crept past her into the kitchen and presented my note to Lidia. She whispered that I should call her the next morning and started writing down her phone number. Hortensia finished her call and made her way over to the kitchen, at which point Lidia stuffed the note into my hand, practically chucked the pen at me, letting it clatter to the floor, turned her back and started pumping furiously at the orange juicer. I was a bit shocked, and a bit irritated at myself for feeling guilty...we weren't doing anything wrong...we're two adult women who can come and go as we please. Yet Lidia's frantic reaction revealed that she must truly fear Hortensia's reaction.

I think I know what is going on, but I don't want to jump to conclusions. I would make this conclusion because it's what I've been told over an over about Mexico: that the social classes are very demarcated and separate, and that discrimination from the top down is not uncommon. Even so, I want Lidia to TELL me point blank that Hortensia doesn't want her associating with me because we're of different social classes. I'm tired of guessing and assuming I know the way things are. I want to hear it from Lidia, but I don't think she'll come right out and say it, and I don't want to pressue her. Honestly, it pisses me off that Lidia is in this situation, and that Hortensia holds that much sway over her personal life. It's none of Hortensia's business.

Conquistadora..?

It's late and I should be sleeping, but somehow I can't. For some reason I keep thinking of one of the essay questions I had to answer for my MU application for this program...it was something along the lines of "How will you deal with the emotional ups and downs that you will experience in a foreign country?" I think I wrote something about how being an anthropology major, I know what to expect when entering a foreign culture, or that since I didn't have any trouble adjusting to college life, I would be fine moving to Mexico for three months (or some such B.S). Looking back, it's almost comical how naive I was...I remember feeling before this trip that I was somehow above all that childish homesickness and loneliness and such. It's funny how arrogant I can be at times...as if moving to college (30 minutes away from my parents' house) was somehow comparable to moving thousands of miles away to a place I had never seen with people I did not know. I have felt lonely, confused, lost, nervous, out of the loop, and just downright bewildered at times. I still experience about 1-4 of these emotions at some point on any given day, but I'm learning above all that I am stronger than any and all of them. Whenever I have doubts I remind myself of what my Aunt Lou Ann wrote to me right before I left..."You were born with the spirit of adventure." Con el alma de aventura...and I'm MAKING IT here...little by little, I'm digging my toes in and making this place and this experience my own. I'm learning that I am resilient and curious and brave, and knowing that makes me feel inconquerable.

Javier el Pintor

On my way to the Zocalo I pass the shoe store at the corner of Galeana and Hidalgo thinking that perhaps Javier will be at his usual post, painting his plates with scenes from Cuernavaca and Puebla, his home. But the shoe store is closed, and I don't see him. I'm about to cross the street when someone shouts my name from behind. I turn to see none other than my buddy--backpack full of art supplies in tow and missal in hand (it being Sunday). After some chit chat, I ask him if he has just come from Mass, and don't quite catch his answer. But one simple question like this is all it takes for Javier to characteristically embark on a discourse detailing, in chronological order, the entire liturgical calendar from Cuaresma (Lent) to Cuaresma. After learning the Spanish terms for every holy day from Pentacost to Epiphany, Javier offers me his opinions about the scandals among Catholic priests of Mexico and the United States--there's something about a bad tempered sacerdote from Guerrero who pulled out a pistol and shot a man dead to end an argument--and in our very own Cuernavaca, rumors of a priest who "se desaperacio," y la gente anda diciendo que el se fue con una mujer. But Javier stands firm in his belief that one bad apple doesn't make a bad dozen (or something like that), y que sacerdotes, ante todo, son seres humanos que tiene las mismas tentaciones como otro humanos. His sense of conviction is irrefutible, and I find that Javier's beliefs are a pretty close echo of my staunchly Catholic parents', although thousands of miles and a fortified border separate them.

Buscando santidad...

11:45 am, Tuesday - I'm sitting in a chapel adjacent to el mercado. Ya vine de la Catedral que es exquisito, pero esta capilla es diferente--es que me parece mas intima y mas sagrada, en alguna manera...no se que es. Hay mas gente aqui que habia en la catedral, aunque la capilla es mas pequeno. Porque es asi? No se...pero creo que es que el ambiente aqui es diferente. Somebody just kneeled down right behind me and I suddenly feel exposed. My hand automatically shifts to cover the words on the page from what I'm probably just imagining as probing eyes behind me. This man is here to pray and probably has very little interest in the languid ponderings of a gringa. Still, I switch to English, weighing the probababilidad de que el puede leer ingles. La mayoria de gente aqui son mujeres que a mi me parecen tener mas que cuarenta anos. Son madres? Esposas? Estas son las que son mas religiosa, no? O solo es una estereotipo? Hay un hombre--he kneels in the pew, head bent--What is he thinking? It seems that something is weighing heavily on his mind as he reverently approaches the statue of some saint dressed in dark blue with blood speckling his forehead. Should I recognize this saint? I feel a bit guilty as my Catholic roots cringe at my ignorance. But the man knows him and kneels at his feet. Trembling (in despair? in reverance? in hope? I'll never know.) he touches the saint's robe cord to his forehead. I have heard of this--of mothers touching sacred statues and then rubbing their children's foreheads. The man presses the cord to his face, his hair, almost grinding it into his skin as if perhaps somehow the sanctity of this place will remain in his skin. This practice is foreign to me, strange and illogical, but then isn't that the essence of religion?

I want to approach the statue, to read the name and the sign beneath it, but everyone is concentrated right in front of it, and I feel alien, like there is a specific way to approach--a code that everyone understands but me. My curiosity conquers my sense of insecurity, however, and I creep up to the first pew where a woman has just risen to go. I cross myself, something that has grown foreign to me over my years of absence from Church, but it seems like the proper thing to do. I kneel because it seems irreverant not to, and fold my hands even though they no longer seem to fit that way. I feel a little wrong--a little pretentious. I don't believe in this, in the rituals and prayers that make sense and give purpose to so many lives. But then, if I am not this, what am I? This WAS my religion, and even though I don't consider it mine anymore, it is still a part of me. I still feel my roots tugging at me, beckoning from open chapel doors from time to time. I miss the spirituality that seems so intrinsic to the men and women here.

What do they think of me kneeling here with my pink backpack in my perhaps indecently short shorts? Are they disgusted? Insulted? Embarrassed? I don't want to be irreverant, but in reality, I can't detect any hints of disapproval. Maybe they just don't care. They are here to worship I think, after all. They are here to feel their GOD, here to bathe in that aire sagrado that is somehow different in holy places, that makes the silence transcendent. I am after all, just part of the scenery, aren't I? They aren't here to wonder about the silly vulgar gringa, estan aqui para reunirse con su salvador.

FE

OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!
Tonight was probably the best night I've had here! We went to dinner at Carol's house (which is a stunning experience unto itself) and met a group of students from Canada who are studying poverty and development in Mexico. THANK GOD!! I finally met people I can make a connection with...
Okay...I have to be honest with myself here...my experience here in Mexico so far has been nowhere near as life-altering or exciting or fulfilling as I had expected. Sitting here tonight talking to these girls, I felt like theirs was the program I was meant to be on. Here I sit in Cuernavaca, learning Spanish, yes. But really...I've been here for a month and I feel like I haven't really experienced life here at all...I still feel like I'm masquerading under this guise of happiness and awe that really isn't a reality for me. I haven't started growing roots here yet...I don't feel like I belong here. I haven't made real human connections with anyone here except for the VAMOS kids. Tonight, seeing these five women and how close they are and how warm and inviting they seem just made me realize how much I've been lacking that sense of companionship in my life in Cuernavaca. I'm lonely...and only now can I admit it because I feel like there is a very good chance that the loneliness will die within the next few days.
Anyway, enough of the sentiments...they invited us to Tepoztlan tomorrow and I am SO excited. Why has it been so difficult to encounter people who want to GO OUT AND DO THINGS here? I don't know...but just like that, life can turn itself upside down. I kept trying to have faith these past few weeks as I've been feeling a little lonely...have "fe" that things will get better, that I will experience that awe and transcendent loveliness of Mexico again...and now I feel like it's coming...I've met some people that THINK and STRIVE to understand and make sense of their world, people who radiate energy like the energy humming within me.

Como estai?

No, that's not a typo. Last night we went out with our Chilean friends and I definitely feel more savvy in the lingo of Chilean young people. I really enjoy talking with them because it enriches my understanding of the cultural differences among Spanish speaking countries in the Americas. I think too often we group together a population and geographic region and think of them as similar when in reality they are very diverse. It's really helpful to understand these cultural differences, in my opinion, especially if you're going to be travelling among countries/cultural regions. For example, I am told that in Chile, rather than pronouncing, "Como estas?" with the "s" on the end, they pronounce the "s" as an "i". Also, in Chile, "chaqueta" means "jacket," while in Mexico, it means "condom." :O That is one mistake I don't want to make while shopping for outerwear in Mexico. :P

Our two Chilean friends' accents are so disimilar that I would think they were from different countries.Even within Latin American countries, there is as much diversity as within the United States. You might be thinking, "Well, duh, Maggie" right now, but really, while you may know that diversity exists, how often do you think of Mexico or Guatemala or Belize or Chile as simply arbitrarily divided hunks of land that contain inumerable cultures and subcultures?

On a completely unrelated note, we went to Jardin Borda on Friday night to see Flamenco dancing...! I know Rashelle wrote about this on her blog so I won't repeat what I'm sure she described more poignantly. I will only say that it was entrancing. I was wondering a bit about the history of Flamenco. I've been told that it originated in Spain among the Moors and Jewish outcasts as a form of self-expression. Flamenco seems to have a very rich history, and I would love to learn more about it. At the performance, the music sounded indigenous to me. I have heard Spanish guitar music, and this was similar, but the singer I believe, was singing in a mixture of Spanish and some other language. His style of singing seemed similar to indigenous music that I have heard, or at least similar to American Indian music. Well anyway, it was an experience that definitely enriched my understanding of Flamenco.

Si no importa eso, que importa?

So today I meandered my way down to the Zocalo to meet Danny at a cafe (my favorite place to study!) And unexpectedly found myself deep in a philosophical discussion about the point of life, ethnocentricism verses cultural relativism, etc. The other day at VAMOS I noticed that one of my kids has teeth that are in really bad shape (This is relevant, I promise). I was thinking (before I found out that personal hygiene is addressed in the classes) that I should really bring him a toothbrush and show him how to use it and such. Really, though, who am I to tell him how to take care of himself? For all I know, in his culture, personal hygiene isn't important. What gives me the authority to tell someone of another culture what is good/isn't good for him? I know that my purpose at VAMOS is to help the children learn how to become successful human beings...by our (American) version of success. If I have no authority then, how do I define what "helping" is? I feel like we live on two different planes of consciousness...what we do and think in our everyday lives, just going through the motions of what our culture tells us is worthwhile, and what we try to comprehend when we really sit down and think about the order/purpose of things. I guess the best I can do is just go through the motions of what I think is "helping" and just leave the bigger questions for later.

Re-reading what I just wrote, I guess it sort of sounds like I'm diminishing/negating the importance of what VAMOS does. That's not what I'm meaning to do at all! I really deeply respect Patty and everyone involved in VAMOS, and I believe in the value of education and community. When I'm at VAMOS, I feel like a worthwhile human being, that I'm actually doing something of value. I suppose I'm just trying to come to a deeper understanding of how I can best serve in the future...

Papeles...

Papers...lots of people need them...not many can get them. Most of my Mexican friends in the U.S. are undocumented, and I think for that reason the struggle that many Mexicans face to go to and live in the U.S. is very poignant to me. I had a conversation this week with a friend about illegal immigration, and I'm really excited because I feel like I have the opportunity here to come to understand more deeply the push and pull factors that influence decisions to migrate. There are the typical reasons that we learn in school...that people go to the U.S. to send remittances home to impoverished families, or simply to attain the "American Dream (?)." But really, I'm sure there are a multitude of reasons why people migrate, and if we could understand the push and pull factors better, we could figure out a better solution than criminalizing a population that for the most part, only wants a better life. I feel like for U.S. citizens, it's very easy to condemn undocumented immigration and to agree with the hegemonic belief that people should just wait their turn to come here legally. In reality though, it's not that simple. When these immigrants become people with names and faces and stories, how can you look them in the eye and say: "Nope, you don't deserve to be treated as a first class human being. I was born here and therefore I deserve more than you."

Buscando...

I guess it's time that I adress politics. I'm hesitant to write anything about what we've been learning in class because I'm not sure where I stand. Learning about AMLO last week was intriguing to me...but I feel like the more I learn about Mexican politics, the more confused I become. From the movie, I got the sense of "good guy" being AMLO and "bad guy" being Calderon. I know where you (Carol) and Charlie stand on the election fraud, but I can't say in good conscience that I agree completely.

Before I go any further, let me state clearly that the election fraud in itself is completely "wrong" (I hate using that word...I mean "wrong" in the context of our system of values.) and inexcusable. I do know without a doubt that I disagree with the way in which Calderon came to power. I don't know much about him and his politics, except that he's conservative and thus considered to be against "the people." I think I have trouble grappling with this because I come from a very conservative background and have learned that there are merits to each political ideology. I think both Carol and Charlie described AMLO as the "conscience of the people," and that phrase immediately sent warning bells off in my brain. In Fraude it seemed that AMLO was dangerously close to creating a "cult of personality," and no matter how much one claims to be "for the people," I have a problem with one person being glorified to that extent. I know nothing about AMLO's true intentions...I'm sure it is very likely that he only desires to improve the lives of his people, and I mean no offense to anyone who supports him.

That said, something about the film just didn't sit right with me. I don't know what to believe. It's so frustrating for me not to know where I stand on politics. I feel that I'm pretty much a conservative on economic issues and a liberal on social issues. At the same time, I feel that my beliefs are constantly being challenged and reforged...and I suppose the problem is that I want answers and truth...and they are most likely unobtainable. Our culture of dualism gets in the way of everything...we think in dualistic terms of right and wrong, "good guy" and "bad guy" while all the while in the back of our minds we know it's not that simple. We want simplicity because it helps us make sense of our world...it gives us a framework for formulating beliefs and behavior. But just because we place two things in opposite categories doesn't mean they ARE inherently opposite. I can't place AMLO on a pedestal and dismiss Calderon as a criminal. UGH I'm not expressing this as clearly as I want to...but I don't know how better to explain what I'm thinking. I guess it's just that I can't embrace AMLO or Calderon. I can't pick a side. Maybe within the next few months I will discover where I stand on Mexican politics...now is just too early.

Si pudiera decir todo...

IQO FCGQH LNEJKHRCNMEWJK N CR!!!!!!!
Well, I just got back from four hours of Charlie. Where to start....? Mi cabeza esta tan llena y no puedo encontrar las palabras.
I guess I'll start with this afternoon. I was standing in the Zocalo waiting for Holley at a street vender, and for some reason I just had this moment of "AHA!" I realized I've still been perceiving Mexico as "the other" in relation to the U.S. I don't know why, but I think I subconciously assume that everyone in Mexico aspires to go to the U.S....I haven't been thinking of Mexico as a completely self-sufficient entity where people are born, live, and die completely comfortably and with no desire to leave. I know how horrible this sounds, me being an anthropology major, but I think I'm suffering from a lingering case of ethno-centrism. I guess the first step is recognition, right? Even so, I feel like every day I'm being slapped in the face by how deep my "American-ness" goes. In cultural anthropology we learn that culture IS who you are...what makes you human. I AM 99.9% American (I know it's not P.C. because the U.S. isn't the home of the only "Americans," but I don't know what other term to use.) For twenty years of my life I have been indoctrinated with American beliefs and practices...and these have oriented me in the world in a very particular way. I think maybe it's more accurate to say "American" IS me, rather than I am "American." I guess my point is, again, that there is a vast difference between learning something is true in school and experiencing it for yourself. Being here, I am experiencing firsthand every day what makes me "American." In the U.S., my culture is invisible because it is the dominant culture. There, "Mexico" and anything Mexican is the other, the obvious... I can only learn about Mexico in terms of how it is different from my culture. But here, I am "the other;" and so my culture is no longer invisible. Maybe I can turn the tables now and learn about the U.S. in terms of Mexico...and learn about Mexico on its own terms.
So much more to say...but maybe that must wait for another day. :/

De mexicanos y gringos...

Hola amigos!!!
I just want to say a quick word about something I've been thinking about since I got here. One of the first nights I was here, Rashelle and I went out with our host brother and his friends. We got to talking about extranjeros like us and how Mexicans feel about them. One of his friends said something very interesting to me: that Mexicans are more fascinated with anything or anyone coming from outside their country and less fascinated with anything Mexican. At the time I just took it as him espousing his opinion, but now that I'm thinking about it, I'm seeing it more and more here. Why did Rashelle and I, the only Americans in line outside a dance club, get in before all the Mexicans in front of us? This has happened every time we go dancing. Last night I was talking to a guy from Monterrey and he said the same thing...that Mexican men les gustan las gringas mas que las mexicanas. I suppose perhaps it's true of any culture, that extranjeros seem more interesting and exotic...why do Americans think of Brazilian women as being so beautiful? When movie producers want to make a character sexier, they give her an accent.
That said, I think this is maybe a smaller part of a larger picture that I can't begin to comprehend yet. I'm thinking again of my friend Fernando from the U.S...he once told me that Americans think they're free, but we're not free. We have everything we could ever want in our country because the government gives us everything we need, "American people—you can never leave this country. It’s only like a few people can like go different countries. ‘Cause uh, like they give you everything, to make sure you gonna stay here. They want to keep you like right here." Is this true? It can't be a bad thing that we have "safety nets" in the U.S., but at the same time, perhaps we have less freedom. Isn't there some saying that poverty frees you and wealth traps you? Of course...I'm talking mostly in this instances about Mexicans like Fernando who come from the poorer parts of Mexico. I wonder if wealthier Mexicans share the same views about the U.S.
Why do estadounidenses focus inward while mexicanos focus outwards? It's odd...I feel like I'm learning more about my country by living here than I did by living in my own pais.

Seguro...?

Okay! Back!

Whew, what a weekend!!!! I'm still trying to get used to the social schedule here...people don't go out until around 12 am and no one starts dancing until about 12:30 or 1...! Que loco!

To completely switch gears...I knew this Mexican man in the U.S. who told me there's no welfare in Mexico...at the time I found it hard to believe. After living here for just a week, let me tell you that I no longer question the validity of his words. He described his life in Mexico as a place where you make it because you have to...there's nothing to catch you if you slip. Looking back on that conversation, I'm finding more truth in it every day...especially in my experiences. Just visiting the neighborhood that VAMOS serves was an eye-opening experience. There's obviously nothing to catch these people or else they wouldn't be living in aluminum lean-tos that most Americans would describe as unpleasant outhouses. This is not a "safe" country...and I don't mean that in the sense that I'm expecting to be mugged around every corner...I mean this is a place far removed from my culture in the U.S. I feel like in America, there is a proper place for everything and a very proper way to act in every situation. Americans, at least in my experience, adhere more or less to speed limit signs and generally view the police as trustworthy. Here I feel like for many people there is no safety net...I'm thinking of the story of Lupe's son in Mexican Lives. He was driving around with his friend in a pick-up truck when the police pulled him over and ticketed him for no apparent reason. When he couldn't pay the fine, they threw him in jail and his mother had to scrap together the funds to get him out. Apparently it was (is?) a common practice in Mexico for the police to pull people over and try to get their victims to pay them off so they won't end up in Jorge's situation. As a read that story, I found it hard to believe...but yet, there it is. There is no safety net here...no certainty that life will continue in any kind of sensible order.

LOS NINOS!!!

Okay...back from Xochicalco. It was rainy but at last the sun peeked through, and for a bit we enjoyed the most terrific view of an ethereally beautiful landscape. No hay palabras...a picture's worth a thousand, right? I'll try to post some if I can figure it out. Anywhos...the school. Ugh! It's so frustrating feeling like nothing I write can come close to describing it. I was so excited to go because I'd felt like I hadn't really seen the "real Mexico" yet. I live in a gated community here with what I consider to be an upper middle class family...and while I know the middle class is as much a part of Mexican society as the lower classes, I feel that what I came here to see and become a part of was the lower class. Now that I'm re-reading that, it sounds awkward and weird. I guess what I mean is that the Mexicans I have known in the United States come from communities like the one VAMOS serves. I came here to see the places they call home. I've seen countless films and photos documenting Latin American poverty...but it didn't seem so real to me. Holding an idea in your mind that you know must be true and experiencing it firsthand are two very different things. I wanted to come here and see for myself the kinds of communities that produce the complicated personalities that I struggled to make sense of in the U.S. Anyway...here I am off track again...VAMOS! I know this sounds SO cheesey but it felt a bit like coming home...like finally THIS is what I've been looking for and waiting to find. The kids are SO sweet and adorable. I wish I could get to know them all, but I'm helping Rosi with the youngest group of four and five year olds. Some of them are so shy (mostly the little girls) and I found myself so frustrated that I couldn't really communicate with them. I need to work on my pronunciation because even when I would speak to them in Spanish, they would look at me funny like they didn't understand me. It was very difficult to understand them as well...It's funny though, even without being able to understand exactly what they're saying, their personalities shine through. I think Jaziel is probably the most outgoing one...he's always pulling Genaro and Alan into his mischeivous activities. They'll be a handful...I've never worked with such a large group of such young children before...but I'm really looking forward to hopefully making a difference in their lives, however small it may be.

Historia de Maggie...

Whew! Or as Minnesotans would say, "Ufta." (I'm learning more than Spanish here ;)) What a week! I can't believe I've been here that long, and at the same time it seems like so much longer. One week ago today I was on my flight to Houston, and that girl already seems a little foreign to me. I came here for adventure and to be melded and re-formed by this country and already I can feel it happening.
Enough of the sentiments...time to catch up on the events of the week. Thursday we went to VAMOS, the school where we'll be doing our service learning. I wish I would have written about it right away while it was fresh in my mind. It's one of those things that I don't feel my writing skills are up to describing.
Maybe first you should know a little bit about me before I try to explain. For example...it might be useful to know that if you ask my friends, "What makes Maggie do her crazy happy dance?" there is about a 94% probability that you will get one of two answers, "Anthropology" or "Mexico." The anthropology obsession dates back to about sophomore year of high school when my parents bought me A Very Short Introduction to Cultural Anthropology for Christmas. (Good book! Find it and read it!) Oddly I can't remember why I asked for that book to begin with...probably because as an adolescent I spent way too much time pondering the strange behaviors of my peers (I was kind of an awkward kid). But anyway, cultural anthropology and I have become very good friends over the past five years ;).
Mexico on the other hand is a more recent preoccupation. At the risk of sounding cliche and naive, I will say that I've always wanted to help people. That's why I became an anthropologist...because if we can understand the people who need help, we have a whole lot greater chance of getting them what they need, right? Junior year of high school, a friend dragged me into a history fair project with her about Che Guevara...and so began an ongoing love affair with all things Latin American. After about two years, when I graduated from high school and needed to find an extra summer job, I snagged one as a waitress (server? to be more p.c. I suppose) at a local family diner. Almost the entire back-of-house staff was Mexican....many of them undocumented immigrants who spoke limited English. I remember being a bit disappointed that everyone was Mexican and not from a more "exciting" country like Honduras or Nicaragua that I didn't know much about :O. I guess that's because when Americans think of Latin America, Mexico is foremost in their minds...I think we know more (or think we know more) about Mexico than any other Latin American country, I suppose because there are so many Mexicans in the U.S. Anywhos...I suppose the greatest influence was that I dated a Mexican immigrant for about a year and got to know his family and friends in the immigrant community. I think just seeing that and being a part of something so foreign to my own life experiences was what hooked me :). I've lived a pretty sheltered life in a very conservative area, and seeing the real lives and real concerns of a marginalized subculture just made everything so much more human to me I suppose...
UGH! I'm not done but we have to go meet Charlie for our Xochicalco tour.
To be continued...(Ser continuado...? I think I may just be making up Spanish words now...:P)

No hay palabras...

This is weird.
It's been what...? Sixish years since I've had anything akin to a blog...not since the glorious days of xanga...! Who remembers that nowadays? I guess I should resign myself to the fact that I'm going to be rambling a lot these first few days as I stumble around trying to re-encounter my voice. I feel like I haven't really written in years...
Okay...so for whoever is reading this and cares to know...I'm starting this blog as a class assignment. I'm studying abroad in (!) Mexico (!) this semester and as part of a service-learning course, I have to keep some kind of journal about my experiences, thoughts, etc. Anywhos...so here I am about to embark on what I hope will be a an enlightening experience. So far Mexico is beautiful of course y no hay palabras para explicarlo.
Well now I'm tired...buenas noches!