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.

"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.

Casi Mexicana

Every month I am going to observe how I am slowly but surely becoming a Mexican mamacita. The old phrase of “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” is certainly becoming true for me as I slowly assimilate. There are days when I think, “I am the oddest person in this city, and certainly no one understands where I’m coming from.” And then there are the days when I realize just how much I love the Mexican culture and wish there were more parts of it in U.S. culture. Through adaptations, adjustments, revolutions and resistance, I will become casi mexicana (almost Mexican).

Blondie. The Guatemalan sun gave my hair beautiful streaks of bright blonde. After months of attempting to keep up with that, and a month in Mexico of being stared at constantly, I decided to dye my hair back to its original glory. A schizophrenic mix of red, light brown and dark blonde, that some like to refer to as “ginger.” I was sure I was scot-free from the daily awkward attempts at English, catcalls, marriage proposals and generally feeling like a rockin’ celebrity. Well, I was wrong. Very wrong. I have actually been receiving more attention- both wanted and unwanted. I think the reddish brings out my eyes, uh, or something. Or maybe I seem more approachable. Or maybe I just feel like I’m back to my original self and that is exuding from every pore. Either way, I like the color, but it didn’t exactly accomplish the goal I set out for- blending in. Appearing a little darker.

Brushing my teeth. You don’t drink the water in Mexico. In fact, you don’t wash your pesticide raised fruits and veggies in it either. They say you have to even keep your mouth shut in the shower. I was advised to ten cuidado (be careful) while treating my housemates to my usual performance of Fergie (how come e’ry time you come around my London, London Bridge wanna go down?...) and Justin Timberlake (dirty babe, you see these shackles baby, I’m your slave…) when I’m in the shower, just in case I open my mouth too wide and get some water down in there. And while I’m not chugging glasses of tap water, I am singing in the shower (thank god, it is such a stress relief) and even… brushing my teeth with it. And my lovely retainers. I figure slow introduction is good. At first I used all purified water, all the time. Then I started just rinsing my retainers in it (being featured in this blog is bringing them more stardom than ever before). After a while, I made the nerve-wrecking decision to rinse my brush after the brushing session, and at least 8 hours before my next session. Surely, whatever bacteria will die before then, right? And now, I have even started to occasionally rinse my mouth out a little. However, slight paranoia has me spitting like crazy afterward to assure complete removal of the tap water. Quite lovely.

Slang. Mexico City has its very own idiomatic culture of making words have excessive amounts of “ch”s in them. Chavo. Chela. Chilango. Panchanga. I spent over a decade now learning the proper words for things and I fly here and have to learn a bunch of other ones. Everyone said I would have to learn Mexican slang, and I thought, “whoa, give me a chance at getting fluent in the textbook stuff first.” But, let’s be real, I can’t be talking like Destinos forever now, can I? So, I said adios to the proper Castellano I learned in the suburban streets of San Antonio and Austin, Texas, and said hello to a dirtier mouth and more “Ch”s than you can shake a stick at. So, here is a run down:

We all know “beer” as cerveza. Here in D.F. it is chela.

That guy over there, he’s a chavo. And the gal next to him is a chava.

I went from being a Texan, to a Washingtonian, to being in the process of becoming Chilanga. Someone that is a native of Mexico City.

I thought I would be fiesta-ing all over this town, but really I’m going to pachangas. This one is particularly interesting because it is derived from “para changes” which literally translates to “for gorillas.”

“Cool” old school is padre, but for today’s folks it is chido.

I thought I would be trabajando-ing here, but instead I go to my chamba. My job.

And then I know a ton of others that refer to all kinds mind-in-the-gutter things such as sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, that I will share on an individual basis. But I will not have the world wide web thinking that my ladylike have transformed to chanchada, or filth.