Leaving the Valley of the Volcanoes

I have been writing this post in my head for ages and still cannot find the appropriate words or feelings to convey. I've decided to return to the US and am leaving this Sunday. It was a difficult decision to make since I love Mexico and have built a life here, but ultimately I feel it is the decision I must make at this point. The past few weeks have been a roller coaster of emotions, but surprisingly my last week has been wonderful. I'm spending my days doing last minute errands, buying pottery that I've been eyeing and, of course, saying my very painful good-byes.

I'm terrified and excited to return to the United States- a true mix of all emotions. The hardest part is recognizing that I will probably never again live in Mexico. Every return I will be a tourist, rather than a local. I will no longer feel the rhythm of the country and have my life here. I worry about the transition back to the US but I'm extremely fortunate that my closest friends and family are waiting for me with arms wide open.

The first few weeks I'll spend in Austin, Texas, visiting with two of my best friends that have also recently returned from extended stays in Latin America. In Austin I look forward to reconnecting in person (after years of skype) with my friends, running on Town Lake, visiting my favorite parts of the University of Texas campus, going out dancing to hip-hop (oh, how I've missed that), and beginning the adjustment back to the US. After that I will go to my parents' place in Cleveland, Ohio where I really look forward to adjusting to taking walks through the snowy woods with my mom, going to the gym with my dad, cooking a lot for both of them, playing with my kitten that has been fostered by them for the past several years, and of course, doing my extensive job search.

So, as I walk the streets this past week, I am trying desperately to savor every moment. The beautiful colonial buildings that I have come to see as everyday architecture, I am now trying to remember the zeal I felt when I first saw these magnificent structures. My frequent trips to the market to buy the freshest and cheapest produce I've had in my life, are now practically spiritual. My landlord's kids are now like younger cousins and we laugh, play and tease each other like family. And the last few moments that I'm spending with friends I'm realizing that I won't have this daily interaction with the same people. Things are going to change drastically. So, I decided to write a short list, in no particular order, of some of the things I will miss about my life in Mexico.


1. Markets. Since food is the most important material thing to me I have been in heaven since the beginning. A trip to the market is social, interactive and vibrantly colorful. Aside from my house, markets are my favorite space in Mexico.

2. Seasons. In the United States we measure our seasons with temperature, in Mexico it is with vegetables and fruit. I have seen the cycles of nature in this way and I actually enjoy knowing I cannot get a mango right now, but there are plenty of cactus pears.

3. Spanish. I love communicating constantly in Spanish. I'll miss the moments of success and the times of struggling to communicate.

4. Lupe. She is the woman that works in the candy store beneath my apartment. One of the strongest women I have met here, yet humble and kind. In a country where I have often found it difficult to find assertive, yet kind women, she indirectly reminded me that my version of the "strong women" needs to be more flexible.

5. Noise. I know this is insane. For anyone that has been in Latin America the noises are intense and constant. I've woken up at 3:30am to fire crackers, the sounds of honking horns seep into my apartment from 8am to 10pm, vendors yell there monotonous sales pitch, the whistle of camotes and platano macho, the public school in my neighborhood that has the National Anthem playing daily, the incessant church bells calling the faithful to mass at every hour, and the sound of silence of my apartment when I returned from where ever I came.

6. Tacos. It is communal, social, delicious, cheap and convenient. When I was talking to my mom recently about how much I'll miss Mexico she said she still gets cravings for the cactus paddy and potato tacos we ate everyday for breakfast in Mexico City.

7. Lunches with Rebecca. For the past 6 months I have spent nearly everyday with my friend Rebecca, eating, going over the day's events, discussing future possibilities, lamenting our troubles. She has been part therapy and part comedy. She was often the first person I called to run an errand with me and the someone that I knew understood the struggles that are experienced living in Puebla.

8. Skype. I believe most genius comes from Danish. Legos, the band Aqua, Hans Christian Andersen and of course, www.skype.com. This has been my link to my friends and family back home in a country that often is touted for having the most expensive telecommunication rates.

9. My apartment. I couldn't have lived in a lovelier place. See my blog for the entry on my house. www.raquelitasmexico.blogspot.com

10. Geo, Gema and Luis. My landlord's kids took me in as family since the beginning. I have begun teaching them English twice a week and always looked forward to seeing them, laughing with them and acting like a kid again. From Twister to Christmas carols, having a fake camp-out and making s'mores to answering their many questions that began with, "In the United States do the children....?" I plan on calling them often and staying in close contact.

11. CAT. My second placement through the Lutheran Church and Solidarity Center, the Centro de Apoyo al Trabajador. This is really where I accomplished my two initial goals- improving my Spanish and learning the ins-and-outs of organizing in Mexico. The CAT accepted me as one of their own from the beginning. I often struggled with my relationships and perspective of how the organization did its work, but ultimately this is how I experienced "Mexico profundo"- the real Mexico. I know with them I'll always have someone to come back to in Mexico.

12. Chile. As I write my mouth is tender for the jicama, lime and chile snack I just finished. I now eat my carrots, tomatoes, mangos and sometimes even ice cream with powdered chile. Probably one of the worst things I could have done to my stomach lining is move to Mexico.

13. Dia de los Muertos. My favorite Mexican holiday. The already colorful country becomes an intense color wheel with sugar skulls, Catrinas, marigolds and papel picado (tissue paper flags with designs cut out from them). This is my favorite time of year.

14. Ellie. My roommate in Mexico City with whom I explored the first of Mexico, laughed hysterically daily, discussed our frustrations and our hopes in Mexico.

15. Mexico City. People call it ugly, a cesspool, dirty, dangerous. I call it wonderful. It is one of my favorite cities on earth and home to my naive days of loving Mexico without abandon or critique. It is hip, exciting, friendly, energetic and intense.

16. Casa Escandon. My house in Mexico City with a roof terrace and view of the city. There, Ellie and I spent nights eating fried plantains with cream, and watching our neighborhood stir. The kitchen was my second home, and listening to Bacilos' "El Edificio" seemed like listening to a song written specifically for us.

17. Cooking. It has become my manual therapy. When I'm stressed, sad or lonely, I cook. I will miss the time and ingredients I have available in order to make this a hobby and leisure activity, instead of a chore.

18. Popocatepetl. One of the three volcanoes, and the only active one, that frame the valley of Puebla. In the spring, when the rains come, it is nearly half covered with snow. I have spent many a days staring at its magnificence and beauty. So often I could be in a terribly depressed mood, and would randomly catch a glance of it from a bus window or a street with low buildings, and it would fill me with such admiration. I am truly lucky to have lived in this valley.

19. Mexicans. Mexicans are some of the friendliest people I have ever met. I constantly think how will I continue what I've learned from the Mexican people. I often struggle between finding myself within the culture, and losing myself in it. But I am always amazed with their tolerance, patience and hospitality with me. I sincerely hope that I can continue working with, specifically, Mexicans in the United States, so that I don't feel like I have lost my Mexico altogether. I have learned and seen their struggle as they live within a difficult reality that they often feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of the change needed, but also content with the rhythm of their lives. I'll never be able to say I ever felt Mexican or thought I could assimilate well enough, but I can say I hope to take all the good I can from Mexico's people, and sustain it in my life ahead.

photos of my house

My bathtub!



Other side of the big bathroom.



My kitchen, dining room and living room- all in one!



Bedroom



View from the outside of my door



view of my door from the ground courtyard



the stairs up to my apartment. My place is to the left.



My amazing window, from the outside



My window from the inside out



Soccer, at night in the courtyard of my house



Some of the kids at my place



Group dinner at my place

Mi Casa es Tu Casa

The sky is falling, church bells aringin’ and boiling poop

In Puebla if you ask someone where they live they’ll give you the general directions to the whereabouts of their house- explain the neighborhood, what bus you have to take to get there, and how many minutes it would take to get there from where you are currently. They end this explanation with there, you will find your home. I love that. There is something so welcoming and inviting about the softness in which it is said. Knowing that you can just pop in on anyone and you’ll find a long conversation, an endless supply of sugary Coca-cola and sometimes an offer of food. At first when performing house visits with my work I couldn’t understand for the life of me how we could just show up at a worker’s house and then spend upwards of 2 hours with them talking. Isn’t this rude? I thought. But in a place where the fluidity of plans and time doesn’t fit into planners, where the uncertainty of life can be both exciting and terrifying, and frankly, communication is severely lacking in precision and exactness, this dropping-in bit serves not only as hospitality, but also as a safety net. Mi casa es su casa.

Mi casa. I live in perhaps the quintessential living situation in Mexico second to the palapa on the beach: the old city center. Puebla is known throughout Mexico for many things- excellent food, mean and unfriendly people, and the most Spanish of architecture. One enters my building from the street entrance into an uncovered patio or courtyard. From there you follow a large staircase up to a wraparound balcony with several doors that lead to apartments. There, you will find your home. I have three rooms. The living room/kitchen, my windowless bedroom, and my massive bathroom. I adore my house. I love cooking for hours on weekends in my tiny kichenette. I sit on my large antique window seat and stare at the plants, or read a book. I am constantly fascinated with the noises, commotion and stirring life, right outside of my house. Buses honking angrily, venders whistling and shouting what goods they have for sale, children screaming as they select what candy they want from the candy shop right below my apartment. These are the sounds of my life.

Chicken Little. My ceiling sheds, so to speak. Often I wake up to a little piece of my ceiling cuddling up in bed next to me. I have a large table in my bedroom that receives daily deposits of dust from the old wooden beams above. The corner of the ceiling next to my stove is constantly forming a pile of ceiling debris. Sometimes I sweep whole chunks of timber into my dustpan. Additionally, the rain inevitably seeps through the ceiling in one particular part and I’ve slipped on an unknown puddle once or twice. The building is old and the neighborhood can be rough at night. The beams that hold up the roof have luckily been reinforced in my area of the building. I have peaked into other apartments that have yet to be renovated and I fear the next earthquake. The building has been in my landlady’s family for several generations. According to her it was first built in the early 1700s, when the busy thoroughfare two blocks away, Boulevard Cinco de Mayo, was a river instead of a 10-lane city street. It was first a stable and servants’ quarters for the large pension across the street that now serves as a prominent newspaper’s headquarters. Later it turned into a convent for nuns of the adjoining church and once served as a well-known bakery. Now it is an old, decrepit, colonial building that holds a paper supply store, a shop that sells bags, a barber and, of course, a taco place. Some neighbors. And me.

The church bells. Morning, noon and night, I can hear the sound of church bells. I have tried to find the rhythm and the estimated time, but I still cannot figure out the schedule. Where my bedroom is, literally on the other side of the wall sits the church offices. Just beyond that, one of the 70 historic Catholic churches in Puebla. I pass it everyday with both awe and contempt. I peak inside and see priests blessing and praying, preaching and forgiving. The bells are part of my landscape. I barely hear them anymore until someone visits and says, “Damn, don’t those church bells ever drive you nuts.”

My bathroom. My bathroom is a monster of a room. It receives the best light in my house, has two sinks (one of which serves as my kitchen sink, since my “kitchen” is sinkless) and the best feature of all an actual bathTUB. In all of Mexico, I have only seen one other tub and that was in a Guadalajara hotel. Showering has never been so good. In Mexico City I relished the 6 minutes of tepid-to-hot water I would get in the morning. Here, I sometimes stand in the shower for un-environmentally-sound amounts of time. But my building is old. And no amount of superficial rehabbing can disguise the fact that we sometimes don’t have water in the city center, there is often an extraordinarily foul smell emanating from some undetermined pipe and the toilet doesn’t always like to flush.

One of my best friends, Melissa visited in June. For days we visited old ruins, shopped in markets, ate insane amounts of food and participated in other such merriment. It was wonderful. However, on the third day the city center didn’t have water. We bussed to a friend’s house in order to bathe, we used purified water to brush our teeth and wash our faces, but finally one night during a particularly strong storm we decided we couldn’t go another day traveling an hour for a shower. Instead we ran up on the roof in our bathing suits to bathe in the rainstorm. Squealing as the cold drops sprinkled us over, we shampooed, conditioned and washed our bodies, hysterically laughing the whole time. The neighbors laughed at us as we ran back into the house to dry up as the thunder stormed roared on.

On one very recent occasion, after days of bathroom “issues” that were exactly opposite of Moctezuma’s revenge, I finally had the pleasure of spending some quality time in my restroom. I finished, flushed, etc. However, upon returning I realized that an extra flush was in order. And so I did. I watched in horror as the backed up pipes made the water rise. And rise. It finally stopped just two centimeters from the top. “Thank God,” I thought. Deep breath. I waited for its descent. And after nearly an hour it was back to normal level. But still had not flushed away the, ahem, waste. So, like I have done in the past, I gave it another flush. Same process- rose, slowly sank to normal level, still dirty. I stared, frustrated. And so, I played this up and down flushing game for about two hours.

I then decided to march downstairs to the store and ask if they had a plunger I could borrow. Lupita searched for one for a good 10 minutes and lent it to me- I marched back upstairs, certain this would do the trick.

It broke. Right there in the high-level-brown-water toilet. The plastic just ripped right there in my murky water.

“What the…?” I exclaimed.

It was then, in that moment of desperation, that I got the brilliant idea to boil some water. When you’re literally counting every peso, you tend to figure a plunger is a lousy investment. One must be creative with their household maintenance procedures. I use boiling water for a host of uses here- cleaning dish sponges, pouring down smelly drains, disinfecting mildewed towels, cleaning my socks. So, wouldn’t a little boiling water help me out in this situation? I filled up my largest caldron, brought it to a boil and brought it over to my disgusting, seriously backed-up, non-flushing toilet. I tossed in the gurgling water and it rose to the top. And to my horror, didn’t go down.

“Shit,” I yelled, sans irony. “Now I have boiling, freggin’ shit!” I sat there in despair. I recounted all the times I didn’t give a damn and just threw my toilet paper in the toilet bowl instead of in the trashcan. I would arrogantly announce to visitors that my toilet is different. Go ahead. Throw your used toilet paper in the toilet. My place is just like America! No need to throw that nasty ass-rag in the little trash can like everywhere else you go here in Mexico. Here you can actually enjoy the first world luxury of, gasp, flushing it down the toilet!

I tried to strike a deal with the toilet gods that I would stop tossing paper in the toilet for “light visits” if only they would help me with this situation. To no avail. My boiling water experiment had clearly failed. For a half hour longer my toilet was spewing forth gaseous steam. When things cooled down, I threw on some jeans, swept my hair back in a ponytail and went and bought my very own plunger for a whopping 15 pesos. It solved the problem in 23 seconds.

My house. So, I don’t own it. It isn’t even my furniture. It could very well not even be here in 15 years for my kids to see. It is old and dusty, and sometimes I get really scared at night. The pipes are ancient and the ceiling is falling. There isn’t a sink in the kitchen and my mattress sags. But it is where I rest my head and escape the chaos of the outside world. It is here that I watch hours of Sex and the City and read every English language literary device I can get my hands on- from 1990’s Gourmet magazines and outdated issues of The Economist, to the books my friends send me. In my non-kitchen kitchen I cook my best meals for my few friends and on the fridge hang the pictures of my family and friends from back home. In the late afternoons I sit in the window and daydream about a future garden I’ll have someday. It isn’t perfect and it isn’t fancy, but it’s the place I feel the most at home in Mexico.

Mi casa es tu casa.

The Miscommunication of Raquel Beneto

I’m not going to be modest. My Spanish is pretty damn good these days. I can banter about culture, life, feelings, frustrations, and most importantly, politics. I can swear at any man that tries to make a pass at me- scaring the poop out of him and drawing strangers’ admiring glances. I can tell people I care about and love what I feel in a sentimental and sometimes tearful way. During meetings at work when I think things are going haywire, I can express just that in a semi-diplomatic way. At the post office, when yahoos aren’t obeying my American Rules of Order and nonchalantly cutting in front of me in line I can tell them to get their ass behind me, I was here first, por favor. I know plenty of slang to earn the respect from the teenage boys I teach English to, and enough polite formalities to usted and sí, señora my way into the more formal circles. When I went back to the U.S. on a short visit, my parents dragged me to Don Ramon, their favorite Mexican restaurant, and paraded me about to the “real Mexicans”, showing me off as their daughter that lives in Central Mexico. My slick skills got us free coffee and unnecessarily extra-large slices of key lime cheesecake. Now every time Sally and David go there, they are treated like quasi-royalty and spoken to in a long string of Spanish, to which they laugh and nod their heads, smiling, not knowing a single word that is said. These are my mad skills at work, people.

But don’t let my ego fool you. I am no native speaker and I can’t even bring myself to write “fluent in Spanish” on my resume. First of all, I don’t understand, or even speak Spanish. What I’m speaking is Mexican. And Mexican is a language all to its own. It is chock full of rotating and regional slang, innuendos and a sing-songy speed that leaves me dizzy after a few hours of it. It has its very own vocabulary in which 90% of the words begin with “ch.” I have nightmares of returning to the U.S., working at an organization where I’m speaking Spanish constantly with Mexican immigrants and then a Puerto Rican walks in the door. He drops his “s” and sounds strikingly like Daddy Yankee. I panic as he rattles to me in his Caribbean dialect and I think, “what the hell kind of language is he speaking?”

I’ll respond casually, “Oye, guey. ¿Qué pinche idioma estás hablando? ¿A poco? ¿Español? No manches, guey, no te puedo entender para nada. Vete a la chingada chavo y encuentra a alguien que hable lo que tú hablas, men. Aquí estoy chambeando y no te puedo echar la mano. Solo hablo dos idiomas: Mexicano y Gringo.”

However, after a year of living in Mexico and with about 70% of my life functioning in Spanish, there are still times when I ask someone to repeat themselves so many times I swear they want to walk away from me. I can’t understand the Northern accent of my neighbor to save my life, and she smiles coyly as I exasperatedly look to others for a little translation. She shouts the random words of English that she knows at me in a slow and thickly accented tone, forgetting that I had been speaking a long Spanish monologue just 2 minutes before. The truth is, for all my occasional arrogance, I still get a little nervous every time I go to a Mexican family function. And while I can discuss the post-feminism influences on upper-class educational systems in Central Mexico, I still am thrown off guard when a waiter asks to take my order at a restaurant.

One day while walking with a co-worker through a dusty rural pueblo we passed the quintessential group of non-neutered, stray dogs. I recalled a lesson I learned in rural Guatemala, when I was attending a Spanish school in a remote part of the country. The director of the school warned us of the aggressive dogs in the street and advised us carefully as to what to do when a dog looking for a fight crossed our path.

“You have to get really big,” he said in his clear and slow Guatemalan Spanish. “Puff your chest out like this and your arms like this,” he exhibited as he tried his best to make his 5’2” frame double in size. “And when the dog gets too close yell, ‘CHUCHO!!’”

We all followed in unison in the in the tropical heat of the Guatemalan lowland. “CHUCHO!!” we screamed, using our most aggressive body language, sweat budding from our brows.

So, here in Central Mexico, I thought it would apply the same. One of the dogs barked and I yelled, “CHUCO!! CHUCHO!!” My co-worker’s eyes widened and a look of fear, bewilderment and hilarity glazed over her face. She didn’t join me in unison.

She began to laugh wildly.

“What?” I questioned.

“What are you saying?” she laughed.

“Isn’t that ‘bad dog’ or something like that?” I answered, not even reflecting on the fact I never learned what the actual word meant.

“It...” she spit out through the uncontrolled laughter, “… is a nickname…” she continued hysterically, “…for ‘Jesus’”

“Like Jesus Christ?” I asked innocently. This sent her further into hysterics. Turns out the answer was “no.” Just for the guys named Jesus (pronounced Hay-Sues)

Later all of my co-workers were informed of this and every time they saw a dog they would hysterically laugh, “chucho!” Or I would sometimes try to squeeze a laugh out of them by pretending to pray, asking “Chucho” to forgive me for my sins. Same language- it just didn’t translate. I’m speaking Mexican now.

The store downstairs from my apartment is my lifeline, both for many things that I purchase (such necessities as water, bread, and Nutella) and socially. I can usually find Lupita there, a strong, young Mexican woman that chit-chats with me in the afternoons. One particular afternoon I went there and she was exceptionally busy with customers. Between juggling four customers’ orders she asked me in front of everyone, “Oye, Rachel, tu novio por casualidad se llama Rodrigo?” (Hey, Rachel, is your casual boyfriend named Rodrigo?) I looked at her skeptically. I had flashes of the “spring breaker” image that Americans have in these parts. I thought it was clear that I wasn’t out vying to win my $500 at a wet t-shirt contest or doing body shots of tequila until 6am.

I sweetly, but defensively, responded to not only her, but everyone else in the store, “Lupe, no. No tengo un novio por casualidad. Tengo un novio SERIO.” (Lupe, no. I don’t have a casual boyfriend. I have a SERIOUS one.) She looked at me confused.

Laughter. The whole store howled. I was utterly confused.

“No. Rachel. Tu novio,” (No. Rachel. Your boyfriend,) she paused to give the effect of a comma, “por casualidad,” (randomly,) another pause-equals-comma moment, “se llama Rodrigo?” (is he named Rodrigo?)

“Oh!” I understood. “No! No, es su nombre.”

Finally, and most recently, I went to one of Puebla’s few parks, with actual trees, to go running. Now, many Mexicans treat dressing up to go to the park or gym like we Americans do for say, a wedding. They have the matching, brand name track suit. Their hip sunglasses in place. Their sneakers looking like they just bought them yesterday- not a trace of dirt. I am not like that. I, like my fellow post-college co-eds, throw on some free t-shirt I got for registering for a campus event, some unattractive old sweatpants that routinely make their way up the crack of your butt (thus burning more calories as you yank it out of your ass crack every quarter mile) and my muddy-ish running shoes (mine happen to look quite orthopedic as I have a terrible roll when I run). After a gasping and grueling 3 mile run (I’m almost 7000 feet above sea level, damn it, and once ran two marathons! Times are tough- I’ll get in better shape back in the States), I decided to visit a friend's parents’ house to raid the kitchen. Lunch turned into, internet, internet into cable TV and finally at about 8 o’clock at night I was leaving.

As his mother, Patricia, was saying her good-byes she jokingly said out loud to everyone, “Look at what Rachel is wearing. She could go stand on the corner and make some money.”

I was shocked. This was the woman that has scolded me for not dressing femininely enough and suggested I try more heels and more make-up (“You wear pearls, for god’s sake,” exclaimed my friend Rita when I told her this news). I eyed her 8x10” photo of Pope John Paul II that graces her entry. Did she really think that I looked like a hooker? The Pope stared down at me in my sweat pant cut-offs and muddy sneakers. I was sunburned, my hair was greasy and I was in dire need of a shower, after not having bathed post-run. It was safe to say that I wasn’t going to be turning any tricks, at least successfully, in this get-up.

“You think I look like a hooker?” I asked with astonishment.

They all roared with laughter. I looked at them bewildered.

“No, Rachel,” my friend explained, “You look like a street beggar in your outfit.”

Oh. Even better.

The point is, whether we’re talking about nicknames for guys named Jesus, spring breakers in Cancun or me working what the good Lord gave me for a few extra pesos, so much of language is cultural. I can ask, inquire, immerse myself, but our cultures breed language. Our culture breeds communication. After 26 years of English, I am still barely mastering my own language. In fact, dare I say, I don’t even speak English, but really American? And now I’m finally learning the basics of not Spanish, but Mexican.

In Praise of America

“The world in which you were born is just one model of reality. Other cultures are not failed attempts at being you: they are unique manifestations of the human spirit.”
- Wade Davis

Yup. I never thought I’d say it. But I miss America. Like crazy. About a year ago I left the U.S. with barely a tear in my eye. I was ready for a new adventure. I wanted to go where there was grassroots action taking place- a more visible revolution. I was looking forward to becoming fluent in Spanish. I thought life would be easier here- simpler. After two years in Washington, D.C. I was ready to not concern myself with my resume, schmoozy happy hours, Burberry bags, extreme perfectionism, ego-mania and living in the shadow of our two-party system- conservative and more conservative. I was finally fulfilling my dream of living in Latin America.

And I got much of that. When I arrived, Mexico City’s main plaza was chockfull of squatters protesting their claim of the fraud in the July 2006 elections. While I’m no native speaker, my Spanish has improved by leaps and bounds and I feel quite confident communicating. In anticipation of returning to the US this upcoming New Year, I recently dusted off my old resume to start updating it. I hadn’t touched it in nearly a year. I haven’t been to a happy hour, much less seen anything about networking since I’ve been here. And the only plaid I’ve seen is at the fayuca, the local pirated market where you can get the entire series of Lost for less than $15, a contraband Abercrombie shirt, the new Gwen Stefani CD before it even hits the stores in the US, and of course, your very own “Burberry” plastic bag.

I also got a lot more than I bargained for. I haven’t seen my emotions aboard such a roller coaster since my pre-teen days. I made some amazing friends with whom I’ll always share a bit of this crazy adventure. I learned the ins-and-outs of worker organizing in a Mexican context. I have seen tremendous poverty and marvelous wealth. Geographically speaking, I can say I know more of Mexico than I do my own country. I eat the freshest fruits, and ripest vegetables daily. I’ve learned to be in touch a little more with my vulnerable side and I now am better at alone time than ever before. Much more than I ever bargained for.

But the truth is, I miss America. I miss our kind of friendliness and openness. I miss trusting nearly everyone I talk to since honesty is a strong cultural value. I miss people talking loudly in public and laughing heartedly. While I don’t miss the political direction our country is taking, I miss understanding the intricacies and having any number of friends to talk about it with in detailed, interesting, thoughtful and educated ways. I miss the extreme displays of wit and irony, and the virtue of making a fool of yourself to squeeze out a laugh from your friends. We are a passionate people. Maybe we don’t show our passion by making out in the public park or dancing at every party, but we love to perform, laugh and demonstrate our excitement, curiosity and love for life. I miss my people.

Diversity. My people are diverse. My family tree alone is filled with English, Danes, Swedes, Hungarians and Scots. Growing up my neighbors’ ancestral heritages were German, Mexican, Czech, Polish, English, Nigerian, Singaporean, Japanese, Samoan, Italian. In the U.S. if someone says, “Let’s go out for dinner!” it is inevitably followed up by, “Great! What are you in the mood for? Thai, Indian, Chinese, Mexican, Italian?” There is no such discussion in Mexico since the food, while delicious, fresh and cheap, seems pretty mono-taste. Lime, chile, tortillas, manchego cheese, zucchini, carrots. And meat, meat, meat. I love the food here (minus the meat). I have never eaten so well in my life. But on a recent, quick trip to visit my folks, I moaned with delight during every meal when we traversed the world in my three days there- Thailand, Southern India, Lebanon, Greece and Italy. While there I went to a Philippino market, a Thai one, an Indian one and American one. I filled my suitcase with green curry, fish sauce, yellow curry, boxed Pad Thai, Chinese green tea, pesto, tahini and expensive olive oil. Add to that, the weekend I was back there were advertisements for a Philopino Fesitval, an International Catholic festival, and an Italian festival all within a 15 mile area.

Being normal. And diversity is normal in the parts of the U.S. where I have lived. No one stares at me. It was almost strange returning and not having any eyes follow me, no babies stare at me with amazement, no men thinking I’m model material. But furthermore, my personality is (somewhat) normal. I’m allowed to be exaggerated, out-going, super-smiley, extroverted and mildly flirtatious. I can laugh loudly, be on time (if not 5 minutes early), over-plan an activity, ask numerous questions and expect an answer, get prettied up, smile at strangers, act boldly. Never have I realized how much of who I am is directly connected to the context in which I grew up. It doesn’t mean it is right, but it is what I know, what I often prefer and what I miss.

Quality of life. And finally, I have the privilege in the US to come from a solidly middle-class, white family. But race and class aside (if that can ever really be done), I grew up among all races and ethnicities. Both my parents came from blue collar families. Thanks largely to strong unions they were able to build upon that, but also class isn’t as permanent in the US- unfortunately, that is changing as middle-class America weakens in power. However, I miss being in a place where the sidewalks are smooth, the air is relatively clean, I can drink out of my tap and I don’t have to soak my vegetables in an anti-bacterial rinse before I eat them. Similarly, I could just get into the shower- no need to heat up the water 15 minutes before. I didn’t have to strike a match to light the stove. And the buses actually wait until I’m nearly at my seat before they take off. I hardly heard a horn honk the entire visit and crossing the street was not a life-or-death Olympic sport. I went to a state-of-the-art gym to work out, I received a quality haircut in which they patiently listened to all the things I wanted (and followed my wishes!), I bought good quality clothes at about half the price I pay for half-polyester Mexican offerings. All of those things may seem superficial, but it also extends to greater things. I am pretty confident I’ll be able to get a decent paying job upon my return with simply my Bachelor’s of Arts- in Geography no less. I know that if I find out that I’m receiving lesser pay than my male coworkers, I have legal action that I can take with a great possibility that it will be a fruitful fight. If I decide that I would like to go back to school for my masters, or even to change careers, I have that flexibility. Quality of life is a fluid and relative understanding of how one lives, and I recognize fully that many of these luxuries are held by me at the expense of others. But the truth is I miss it.

Patriot? I’m not one. I find the word scary. When I think patriot, I think of Rush Limbaugh, Mao Zedong and Ann Coulter. The word has been bastardized, but even on the pure definition I can’t necessarily accept the title. I will probably not ever hang a flag from my front porch, much less decorate my house in the star-spangled banner. I will always try to critically analyze my nation’s actions at home and abroad. I think that we as Americans aren’t analytical enough about our news, media, education system, domestic policy and role in the world. Recently, a friend forwarded a video to me of Americans being asked simple questions such as the monetary currency of England, name a country that begins with “U”, who is the speaker of the house, and other such easy trivia. I watched in horror as they answered “dollars,” “Yugoslavia,” and “Dick Cheney.”

Acceptance. I’ve never been good at acceptance. I struggle with it constantly- when do I accept something as is, when do I just abandon it and when do I work to change it? The same thing goes for the U.S. I am nervous to return to that America. How do I return to an America where half the people are blaming Mexicans for low wages (is it not Congress that controls the minimum wage? And is it not Corporate America that influences Congress to keep it unlivably low?) and believe that a wall will do the trick to “keeping them out.” I don’t know how I’ll handle it when people state their ill-conceived perceptions about Mexico and Mexicans- a country and people that I deeply love. Don’t get me wrong. I’m one of Mexico’s biggest critics. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think some arrogant thought about how Mexico needs to get its act together. But the same exact thing goes for America in my mind. Mexico frustrates me, it wears on me. It stresses me out and angers me often. But just like family, friends, America, Christianity, my relationship, and even myself, I have to take the good with the bad. I love Mexico. I really do. It has molded me into a better person, it has opened my eyes about relativism and foreign policy. It has made me see myself, and my country in completely different terms. But when I come home at the end of the day, and when I talk to my family. When I make my friends laugh and when I discuss politics with them. When I express my values and my dreams, when I reflect on my past and when I dream about my future, I know I am fully American. The good and the bad.

What's all this about death?

This weekend I went to watch a procession of Jesus's walk to his death. This takes place all over Mexico, including actual reenactments of the crucification- blood and all. Easter Sunday is not so big. Thinking it might be a Latino, Catholic thing, I asked my best friend, Joy, living in Bolivia what she is doing for Viernes Santo (Good Friday) and she sort of said, "nothing- it's not that big here."

While touring some small towns here with a friend I noted this to her and she responded, "We're a culture that celebrates death. That's why it is big here." And then I thought, of course. Mexico's biggest holidays include Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), a day when millions flock to the graves of loved ones, build altars to the dead. Colorful paper cut-outs, colorful candles, colorful candies. Good Friday, the day when we generally mourn Jesus' death in our Protestant traditions, looks just as colorful with bright sawdust and flower carpets in the streets, and flowers everywhere. It kind of fascinates me and makes me wonder, "how can death truly be celebrated?" How can the end of something, supposedly good, be celebrated? When the good times are on, I want the good times to last. Not die. Much less be happy about the good times ending.

"Mujer" No Se Escribe con M de Macho

Most moments I love Mexico. Honestly. I may roll my eyes when buying a tamale turns into a 15-minute ordeal. I may fear for my life when crossing the street. I may not be able to figure out how late is actually inappropriately late- is it 20 minutes, 30, 40? But this country has already left a life-long impression on my perspective, heart, faith, politics and values. Everyday is filled with blue skies and temperatures hovering around 75 degrees. I enjoy the work I do. The food is almost too good. I love the language. And the sincerity and warmth of the people has been the thing what keeps me going when I feel entirely disconnected from friends and family in the States. But I won't lie, there are certain aspects I would never be able to accept. Perhaps the most difficult aspect of Mexico and its culture is machismo. Machismo is essentially our version of sexism, and just like sexism, it seeps into nearly every aspect of the culture. From jobs and wages, to women's roles in the family, church and politics. And I am not just observing it happen to others. I experience it as well. And I detest it.

The Street. Laugh… go ahead, laugh a little. But I have definitely decided that a celebrity life is not for me. Puebla, a "small city" of about 2 million, is not accustomed to the flow of foreigners that Mexico City knows. There is not a block I walk, quite literally, where I don't get a lecherous stare, a "mamacita," an attempt of sweetheart English, and/or not-so-gentlemanly reminder of how supposedly guapísima (even in sweatpants, big-poofy-hair-pulled-back-in-a-ponytail, old college t-shirt and chowing down on a taco with lime and grease dripping down my hand) I am. This at first may not seem so bad. Geez, simply by moving to a neighboring country, I am suddenly "ten!"… or at least a 9.5. Not so hard to deal with that. But the truth is, it wears on you. I just want to walk to work in peace. I don't want to be noticed, verbally recognized and pointed out to co-workers, while they grab their crotches and lick their lips. And it gets worse. I've had some of the most disgustingly sexual things said to me or gestures done to me. Anytime I'm walking and see two or more men on the sidewalk up ahead, I get a knot in my stomach. I prepare for whistles, sweet love comments, aggressive sexual innuendos, or at the very least, a long hard stare.

The Cycle. But this is just the least of how machismo rears its ugly head. Often women are discouraged to leave the house, rampant infidelity takes place in an estimated 70% of marriages, job discrimination, women being largely valued for their physical qualities, and violence, both domestic and in the street. Not all too different from what happens in the United States, right? So, where does this start, who's responsible, how can this cycle be broken and where do I say this is cultural and I must accept it, and this is just plain wrong? One of the things that I have come to learn is that machismo, just like sexism, is something that is socially nurtured. And it's not just the men participating in that socialization- women do, too. It starts at home (girls being forced to help their mothers with household responsibility, while boys either work with their fathers or play), it's rooted in the Church (women being told to maintain a veil of purity and passivity, while men fill all the leadership roles and make all the decisions), it's perpetuated in schools (even public schools are often divided by sex) and then brought back home to the to the family (with mothers, as often as fathers, perpetuating submissive roles and teaching their daughters, and sons, to model the behavior).

My work. The women at my work are strong, independent. The men are progressive minded and kind. At least the version I'm accustomed to culturally. The truth is, maybe I define "strength" differently. Many of you know that I am quite assertive. I let it be known when things don't settle right with me, just as I let it be known when I am really happy and content. Some of that has changed since I've gotten to Mexico, and I think I've done it mainly in order to conform to my view of societal roles for women. I don't want to be the Ugly American. It is a much more subtle country. Indirect. I'm not.

Two weeks ago I cried for about an hour to a friend here. I was so emotionally fed up with being harassed on the streets. I was- rather, I am sick of being hollered at like an animal. I have the right to walk in peace. I sometimes don't want to leave my house unless I'm with someone. This isn't me. As my friend comforted me while I sobbed on his shoulder, I wondered, "how am I letting this change me?" I decided to talk to my co-workers about how I should handle harassment. I was more than happy to hear them suggest that I should do what has always been my natural instinct- assert myself (in public and sober settings). Now when men say things to me, I say something return. Sometimes it's a sweet reminder to "be a gentleman" or a passive aggression, but obvious eye-roll and headshake. Other times I have actually stopped in my tracks, turned around and demanded that they repeat it again to my face. A few times I have questioned angrily how do they suppose I feel when I can't go anywhere in Mexico without being told something disrespectful. Surprisingly, some of these confrontations have led to a respectful conversation on cultural differences and basic human rights. I've even had some men apologize and admit it is wrong! Others have taken it lightly and laughed (I'm sure among other things) when I turned my back. But the point is, the women at my work gave me the courage to be myself again. They encouraged me to not be passive and accept that treatment. And you know what? It probably doesn't change a damn thing, but it restores my self-esteem when I can voice my anger.

Change and hope? I am more than lucky to have men in my life here that understand this phenomenon and reject it. The my male friends here all helped remind me Mexico is filled with people fighting this personally, and sometimes publicly. This weekend the organization where I work hosted a "Gender Workshop" and invited workers from the maquila industry in rural Puebla and Tlaxcala to participate. Women and men gathered for two days of guided discussion about the concept of gender roles, machismo and what can be done. It breathed new life into me. I needed it maybe more than anyone else at that workshop. I observed and participated as workers from poor rural towns talked about the differences between genders and how men and women can work to change the inequities. Women spoke of the hurt they've experienced on the street, at home and in the workplace. Men talked about how they identify as men because they are "permitted" to "have girlfriends aside from their spouse," "be the boss at work," and "make decisions in the house." Through the range of emotions and thoughts I had during the workshop, the one thing permeated was this feeling of relief. I was relieved that there are folks in Mexico giving workshops like this. I was relieved that there are people from poor and marginalized communities, with little formal education, working difficult jobs, and barely having time for their families and household commitments, that took the time to come educate themselves and share with others their personal knowledge. Absolute relief.

I walked home that Sunday afternoon, the same route I always take. Content for the first time in a long time with the state of women's rights in Mexico. I thought, "maybe the issue isn't so hopeless after all…" And for the first time ever on that 35 minute walk between my work and my house, not a single man said or did one disrespectful thing to me.

Can I Play With Your Dandelion?

This comes from a submission to my friend Matt's online writing project http://thesignifier.com/ This week's theme was Songs of Significance.

When I was a kid, my father used to refer to Phil Collins just by his first name. It would drive me absolutely crazy. Even as a thick-glasses-wearing, feathered-hair, pastel-plaid-sporting, knobbed-knees little girl, I knew that was utterly lame. I would respond, “Oh, your good friend, Phil,” sarcastically. He would sing “Phil’s” songs so loudly, and his face would scrunch up really seriously like he was singing backup. I hated Phil Collins and what he did to my dad. But one day, in what I recall was 1987, he made me listen to Another Day in Paradise. It absolutely moved my 6-year-old self. I felt the pain of the woman on the street begging for money. I wanted to defend her, confront the man that ignored and humiliated her. Demand he not “pretend he can’t hear her.” A good portion on my pre-teen years were spent trying to decipher the importance of Martika’s Toy Soldiers- first contemplating an abusive relationship, then finally realizing the not-so-subtle drug addiction message. I spent much of my drama-filled teenage years listening to U2’s older favorites like Sunday Bloody Sunday, New Year’s Day, and even the newer AIDS anthem One, wondering why God didn’t create me to be a West Berliner, new-wave teen that wore thick-striped black and white t-shirts and hot pink Doc Martens. Bruce Springsteen’s Streets of Philadelphia was another song that pulled at my heartstrings as he reflected on loneliness and despair one feels when suffering from AIDS. Finally, my early college years came and I absolutely adored the abortion reflection of Ben Folds Five’s Brick- finding it honest, sensitive and creative. From the cheesy to the somber, I have always liked the more subtle “message” music. I want a song that has a story to tell, an opinion to be aired. But when you ask what song conjures up some of the best memories, I’m not waving a white flag or confronting President Bush’s wars on terrorism, the working-class or women’s rights, instead I’m dancing like a dirty hoe on the dance floor.

When the first musical lines of Lil’ Jon and the East Side Boyz classic hit “Get Low” start, there is never an empty dance floor that doesn’t fill. And I’m not going to lie, I often make it my personal goal to be in the middle of that packed dance floor. Ba-dum-bum-dump. Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dump. Owww… This was the song that brought the color to my senior year of college. In 2004, there was not a party complete that didn’t feature this song once- the genius of this song was awaited at every frat party, bar crawl and formal dance. Within the first lines drunk and sober alike, would crowd the dance floor dramatically pointing “from da windooowww” and then “ta da wall.” This song made it perfectly acceptable to sing along to themes such as testicle sweat, ejaculation (so affectionately referred to as “skeet”) and the diverse actions “booties” can partake in, including popping, dropping and of course, getting low.

This song produced a myriad of different emotions and reactions from everyone around me throughout my senior year. There were moments of relief. “I just talked to the DJ and he said he’s definitely playing it in, like, 3 songs. AGAIN!!” Moments of protest. “If this Nuevo Laredo bar doesn’t play it let’s just get the whole bar singing it!” Moments of panic. “Oh my god, I was in the bathroom when I heard it start playing and I just stopped peeing right then and there, zipped up my pants and ran out here! Yee-ow!!” Moments of revelation. “Wait, I thought he was saying, ‘Can I play with your dandelion?’ but just realized he’s saying, ‘panty line!!’” And moments of absolute brilliance. One early-semester afternoon of procrastination, in sweat pants and t-shirts, one of my housemates, Brad and I produced what was probably one of the more genius creative endeavors in which I have ever collaborated. For hours we videotaped ourselves giving dance instructions to the tune of “Get Low.” Me with my faux Bronx-Puerto Rican accent, and him trying to ghetto-it-up South Hamptons style with talk of the “mean streets.” We improved demonstrations of the ridiculous dance moves we invented on the spot. Moves like the “Alabama Crab Dangler” where I jumped up and wrapped my legs around Brad’s torso, and twisted my body a lá the 1980s Snake, and the “Spider” which entailed Brad and I, arms hooked together, back-to-back, crawling around on the floor. We showed this, now lost, 30-minute video wonder to everyone that would watch, and I, myself must have watched it at least daily. It made me happy. Perhaps disturbingly happy. It also created an even deeper dependence on “Get Low.” Our specific dance moves were not applicable with other such dirty songs of the day like “Freek-a-Leek” and “Toxic.” The “Weegle”, which entailed Brad lifting me up and me dropping down and wiggling my ass about, could only fit perfectly during the “now, stop, uh, and wiggle wit it” part of the song. When Lil’ Jon demands all the “ladies dat know de look good tonight” to “bend over to the front, touch yo toes, back dat azz up an’ down…” we shamelessly did a sexed-up version of the childhood game “leap frog.” The dancemoves were absolutely interdependent on “Get Low.”

One of my favorite anarchist-thinkers, Emma Goldman is attributed to having believed, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your Revolution.” My truth be told Rage Against the Machine, U2 and Mos Def often move and inspire me politically with their words, actions and perspectives on social justice issues. But my intellectualist-activism can often be lightened with a song that simply forces me to beg the DJ to play it, squeal with delight when it starts, sing at the top of my lungs to the nonsensical lyrics, dance like an absolute hoe, and, of course, get low.