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.

The Adventures of Rachel and Ellie- The Quinceañera

My closest friend in Mexico is one of my housemates, Ellie, a British gal doing a year in Mexico working with street children. We cook, talk, eat, dance, and explore Mexico together. She keeps me sane most of the time when things get rough, and cracks me up constantly. She says it is only because of her accent, whereas I vehemently deny such simplicities and insist it is her wit. Regardless, we tend to get ourselves in all kinds of trouble, and have a whole list of other adventures that we're committed to doing. Our list includes the innocent to the ridiculous, almost all being comical attempts to partake, and yes, sometimes even mock, Mexican culture. Our first adventure was living out a 15th birthday that we never had the chance to exploit appropriately. The Quinceañera.

I'm a white girl. I grew up in San Antonio and while most of my Mexican-American girlfriends were dressing up like Cinderella for their 15th birthday, mine passed with hardly a sequins in sight. Yes, we WASPs have our Sweet Sixteen, and girls not raised by Yankee parents (which is my case) sometimes receive ddebutante balls, but by the time that age rolls around your too busy trying to figure out who you want to make out with during spin the bottle and which Stop 'N Go you're going to buy your Boone's Farm Strawberry Wine. My Sweet Sixteen was 80's themed (before it was cool, mind you) and my girlfriends and I snuck up to my closet to chug back peppermint sschnappswhile my dubbed copy of "I Ran" by the Flock of Seagulls blared in the background. Now I'm not saying that I was ccherubimand innocent only a year before, but life gets more complex the deeper into your teens you go. A Quinceañera is a ball. A Sweet Sixteen is a underground booze fest.

Quinceañera. I yanked this straight from Wikipedia… This celebration marks the transition from the childhood to womanhood of a Quinceañera. It serves as a way to acknowledge that a young woman has reached maturity. Most parties have the girl wear a pink dress (as she is still a girl, never white which equals bride but now other cultures are letting the girl pick a color) and a tiara because she is a princess in God's eyes that night. She holds a court with 14 girls (damas) and 15 boys (chambelanes) which including herself would equal 30 people, or, 15 couples (to represent each year). At the party the court does a waltz and a surprise dance. The girl also dances with her father but first changes from flats to heels to represent the first time she can wear them ( the same with makeup). She could also get a doll with the exact same dress she has on to signify that this will be the last doll she ever will receive. In the past the party would show the girl is ready to be married, but now in today's culture it is so the girl can date. In the Mexican tradition, if the quinceañera is Roman Catholic, the festivities begin with a Thanksgiving Mass (Misa de Acción de Gracias), at which the quinceañera arrives in formal dress (usually of color representing childhood) accompanied by her parents, godparents, a number of maids of honor and chambelanes ranging in number anywhere from seven to 15 couples. After the Mass, the younger sisters, female cousins and friends of the quinceañera pass out party favors and the quinceañera leaves her bouquet in an altar to the to the Virgin Mary. The Mass is followed by a party either at the quinceañera's home or in a banquet hall leased for the occasion. At the party, the quinceañera dances the traditional first waltz with her father and male relatives. Then her boyfriend, or male friend (also called a chambelan), dances the remaining part of the dance with the birthday girl.

The Queen. For every Quinceañera there is the main star- the birthday girl. She has a legion of maiden type figures- her closest friends- who are instructed to dress in similarly ridiculously expensive dresses, but are required to not outshine the Queen. She is dolled up, paraded around, and escorted by some horny boy. I have to admit, I think it is pretty ridiculous. As most of you know, I am constantly trying to open my mind to gender neutrality issues and understanding the power dynamic of male/female relationships. Wearing a huge, fluffy, pink dress is not my idea of revolutionary feminism. Call me a ba-humbug, but I'm thinking, "Screw the dress and party, how about instill some real self-confidence and self-worth in women!" I don't think many agree with me. Gloria Steinhem, Inga Muscio and I will just have our own party, I suppose. Hmm...

Tiendas. All along the main thoroughfare of Insurgentes in Mexico City, there are boutiques displaying the wildest dresses. My walks up this street usually left me wondering about the inner workings of these stores. One day, I finally thought, how can I get in there? I decided the only way to do so is to go shopping. I returned home and proposed the idea to Ellie. Always up for spontaneity and adventure, she agreed. We planned for it that Saturday afternoon and headed out that early afternoon, guts in check and cameras in hand. We had to select our store carefully. Often the stores double as bridal shops and we did not want to be wearing a bride’s dress. We walked slowly by a few and sized up the ridiculousness of the dresses. Too conservative. We continued walking. Too busy. We didn’t want to wait, nor did we want to steal the time from customers that truly needed the attention. Finally, we found one that would work. A good mix of bright colored dresses and enough attendants that appeared free.

Naked. Now, I am no prude. I feel moderately comfortable with my body. I can definitely laugh at myself, and often have to because otherwise I’d cry. But I am a conservative dresser. I rarely show cleavage (partly because there isn’t much to show) and never wear heels. I like J.Crew catalogs for their simple and classic oxfords and khakis. If God wants to reward me, I will have a closet full of the preppiest fashions in this life. If she wants to punish me, send me to spend all of eternity in Bebe or Guess. Similarly, I don’t often strip in front of people. I will change in front of a good friend, but I take comfort in the fact that I know they aren’t really looking at me. So, after selecting our dresses, Ellie and I were guided up to a huge dressing room surrounded by mirrors, I was horrified when I was told to undress right there. “Huh?” I asked. Ellie and I looked at each other surprised. We both sheepishly stripped down to our bras and panties, still sexily wearing our socks. Mirrors surrounded me and I was reminded of the size of my posterior and how the back of my thighs aren’t what they were when I was 15. Good grief. I turned away. The two ladies were ready with big, poofy, white underneath things (pardon my lack of ball gown vocab) that would make the dress bah-iiigg! This was even more distressing to see in the floor to ceiling mirrors. The dresses came next- Ellie’s blue, mine pink. Over the head and on. I sucked in as ordered, while the women pulled tight the lace-up part in the back. My ribs hurt.

Beautiful. The color was horrendous. I didn’t have any make up on and my hair was swept up into a ponytail. But somehow, this dress was gorgeous. There is something magical about a big poofy dress. How it transforms the ordinary into something extraordinary. I pranced around shyly and even practiced dancing in it, lifting it up slightly to walk and setting it back down, fluffing it out into place. It isn’t radical feminism, and I didn’t even like it that much, but I kind of longed for my Texas Lassos days of formals and tuxes. Sometimes the most ridiculous and uncomfortable things can make you feel the most beautiful.

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.

Let's Get It On

Making Out. Of course, you all want to know about my lustful, luxurious, Latin, love life. Most of you have inquired coyly, what kind of conquests I have under my belt, how Francisco the Latin Lover is doing, what is it like kissing in Spanish or how many Mexican hearts I’ve left broken and dead in my glorious wake. But I have news for you- it is pretty much non-existent. An’ by preety mah-uch, I mos ascertainly mean- NADA (I know you all miss the sassy Puerto Rican). So, while I’m not doing any of the above, I am definitely seeing pretty much every one else do it. Imagine being the third wheel on a date. Constantly. In every moment of your entire life. Well here, in Mexico, I have a front row seat to the hottest make out sessions in town. At least three times day, in fact. When we first started dating, I used to think my ex-boyfriend and I made quite the scene as we hugged and smooched down the stiff, serious streets of Washington, D.C. I often felt sorry for passerbyers as we nuzzled and fawned all over each other, Seinfeld “Schmoopie-woopie” style. But we didn’t care, damn it. We were in lust and had to express it right then and there. And apparently so is all of Mexico City.

A Walk in the Parque. While I’m sweating, and keeping my booty in shape during my morning runs in Parque Mexico, usually at least one teenage couple and one middle-aged couple are getting it on on the cozy, covered benches. Hot. As I dodge leash less dogs and burn off the six avocado and onion tacos from the after-party last Saturday night, I also have to do everything in my power to not scream, “Get a room, you yahoos!” Unfortunately, I don’t know how to translate “yahoo” in Spanish. The park is the most graphic experience as they usually take one of two positions (or both if I’m doing several laps around the park and I get to be the viewer of several stages in the dry humping session): either the guy is leaning against the post at the side of the bench and the girl is facing him with her legs draped over him like he is her effing saddle for her Kentucky Derby prize stallion; or, the woman will be seated on the bench and congenially hosting lover boy’s head, nuzzled nicely in her crotch region. I have noticed that in the park there is actually less kissing and more dry humping. It’s a different story on public transportation.

Come On Ride the Train, Train. Taking the metro is always an exciting adventure. There are roaming vendors blasting music and selling everything from gum to coloring books. While waiting for the next train, lovers, usually up against a wall rather than discretely off to a corner, participate in something less than a kissing session. It usually involves brushing noses and staring deeply, and closely, into each others’ eyes- so much so that they’ve gotta be cross-eyed. But when the train approaches and every one makes a ruthless dash to board, the said couple will enter together and find either some seat to share and swallow each others’ faces (directly across from usually a middle-aged man or grandma with her grandkids), or an awkward place to stand and make out. The first option is always interesting because is usually involves lots of tickling and perhaps even an accidental bang of a head on the window. Which I always enjoy. The seats are laid out so that four people could sit down and converse, so less than 2 feet away some poor soul has to avoid looking straight ahead in order to avoid being called the pervert. The standing option has its risks as trains in Mexico make screeching halts with little notice. Additionally, unlike the sitting option, there is usually little to no breathing room because we are all squeezed in like chickens in a cage at Tyson’s poultry farm. I had the wonderful experience two days ago of sharing a vertical holding bar with a couple, only a tad older than the lovely Sally and Dave Bennett, peck each other over and over and over. Now the Metro is loud enough so that I would have to blast my iPod when listening to it in order to hear Bono croon, but as this couple swapped saliva, I could hear ever g-d slop and slurp. I was beyond annoyed.

Pesero, wha?. See above. Thankfully, I have seen a trend that the said pair-bond reserves the back seat, so that the only folks really forcibly viewing this scene are their seatmates and the car behind the bus.

I’ll Drink to That. Oh the luxuries of booze. How we all miss the good ol’ college days of drinking into oblivion and making out with someone you wouldn’t look twice at in your Sociology seminar. While I have to admit, there are plenty of Mexican men to look twice at, that is if you are even so foolish to look away in the first place, there are also plenty of the less Mexican model-ish folks doing all kinds of making out at bars. Now Mexican bars make the crowd at TomTom’s look light. They pack ‘em in, as I’m quite convinced there isn’t such a thing as fire code regulations in this country. So, as I am trying to squeeze my way through the mass in order to purchase my Coca-Cola con limon, por favor, eye flirting with a couple suitors along the way and desperately avoiding eye contact with the rest, I usually come pretty close to practically joining these alcohol induced make-outs. It is a lovely experience as I balance my soda on the way back to my friends and try not to get swallowed in the process.

Buen Provecho. Mmm… Mexican food is some of the best in the world. I will have a separate entry simply devoted to the topic of food, and the consequential expansion of my love handles. And while there is nothing more hopeful than seeing two people madly in love, I do not want to see that shit while I’m about to bite into a blue corn tlacoyo smothered in chipotle salsa and topped with cheese and nopales, all for about 70 cents! Good lord, I love my life! But I digress. Restaurants are a grand place for romantic candlelight, intimate lighting and, of course, food sharing a la Lady and the Tramp. But those cartoon puppies had to keep it G-rated for their 1940’s Disney audience- Mexican diners do not. Add ice cream to the mix and you have your self, at least PG-13. Now, I am the first one at a dining session to offer samples of my entrée, but sharing ONE ice cream cone, at the same time, is not acceptable behavior, People. For crying out loud, I am on the most meager stipend and I can afford to buy my own cone. If you want a lick, fine, try my dulce de leche and coconut combo, but for god’s sake, not at the same exact time I’m licking it!

One is the Loneliest Number. If Italy was where I witnessed the most amount of public lovers quarreling, Mexico is where I am witnessing the most amount of lovers loving. I don’t know, maybe I am just bitter. I can’t lie. Sometimes I fantasize about sucking face with my very own Mexicano. How exciting it would be to swap spit with Pablo in the middle of the Zocalo, as kids try to peddle chiclets at our feet and the smell of tacos permeates our rendezvous. At times I think it would be nice to inhale the scent of a bouquet of cheap roses on the metro while I shyly pretend I don’t want to receive the onslaught of poking, prodding, and other such affection that Juan here is showering me with. How romantic it would be to go to the market with Rodrigo, pick out a ripe passion fruit and then feed it to each other right there- where we bought it- as people push and shove past us trying to buy their families some damn dinner. And yes, I’ll even admit that dry-humping Carlos at 8 o’clock in the morning on a wooden bench in Parque Mexico would sure beat sporting an old college tee, my bed-head hair thrown back in a pony-tail, and dripping wet with sweat as I make my seventh lap around the kilometer-long path. But for now, when I see such public displays of affection, I will look the other way, roll my eyes, steal judgmental glances and then go take a cold, cold shower.

Viva Mexico

Fourth of July... err... Well, imagine our Independence Day with a change of colors, language, songs and a bit more unrest. Alli, my friend and fellow gringa, came up from Xochimilco for the weekend to head to the Zocalo and pretend to be mexicanas. Throughout the Zocalo, bright lights of red, green, gold and white swirled and blinked. Vendors hawking their goods of various flags, glitter and gaude. People carrying Lopez Obrador signs (remember the leftist that had the election stolen from him and that has since supported a planton and blockade, that has been taken down in the past few days) and registering for the Democratic National Convention that was taking place the next day in order to determine what the next steps should be for taking

The Patriot wears... Not Prada (and might I add, I have yet to find a decent shoe store that sells quality, decent priced shoes with good arch support and cute style? Ugh...), but glittered headbands that read "Viva Mexico" framed by the (glittered) Mexican flag. I'm talkin' the Karate Kid headband, yo. These lovely tokens of fashion and patriotism are worn by many, but I'm certain my dear Alli and I were the only gringas sporting these lovely gems (see photo). For less than a buck I have my own piece of Mexican patriotism that can only be rivaled in gaudiness by U.S. flag, string bikinis (unfortunately, I don't have one of those... shucks...). Added to that are our Mexican flag markered cheeks. Slap some handcuffs on me, read me my rights, charge me with treason, and stick me in Guantanamo, but I loved the feel of this false parading of Mexicanness. Viva la Patria!

I gotta go bafvroom. So, in the midst of the mayhem, my leetle leetle bladder decided that this here lady needed to relieve herself. Lovely. My option. Yup, port-o-potties. But not just any port-o-potty, but Mexican ones. That have probably been there since the beginning of the protests on the Zocalo and more than likely not been cleaned out. I searched for a McDonalds, Starbucks or some other form of Capitalism to exploit for clean facilities. None to be found. So, with Alli's reluctant support and encouragement, I covered my nose with my sweater, climbed into one of those bad boys and squated over the most disgusting toilet I have ever encountered. I prayed that nothing would splash back up as I gave my quads a work out. Funny thing is that in Mexico we don't throw toilet paper in the toilet to be flushed, but instead put it in the trash (the toilets cannot take the bulk). Well, this Mexican tradition even extends to port-o-potties, because due to lack of little trash can, the ENTIRE DAMN stall was used as a paper disposal. Not a pretty sight. At all.

Sickness. Well, I may have braved the treacherous experience, but Alli refused. She held it. And might I add, her needs extended beyond the simple, tinkle. Alli had been having more intestinal problems in general, which I have thus far escaped and hope to continue with such luck. After several breaks to try and think it away and other such nonsense, I finally convinced her to go put on her sweetest face and very lady-likely express her "needs" to a nearby hotel (that runs about $250 USD a night, I might add) doorman. He kindly felt sorry for him and allowed her to enter and use the facilities but forced me to wait for her outside. After about 15 minutes, he probably felt sorry for the gawks and stares I was receiving as the swarms of Mexicans filtered through the street on the way to the Zocalo. He finally let me in where I attended to her in the "not $250 USD a night bathroom" (but kilos better than what I endured). After 15 minutes of coaching her through the bathroom stall, I finally excused myself to wait in the lobby. There I sat, exchanging smiles and knowing giggles with the hotel staff, for an additional 20 minutes. Alli finally, and confidently made her exodus from the ladies' room, and we walked laughing out of the hotel to the crowd. Viva Mexico headbands on and all.

El Grito. At 11pm, surprisingly on time, the Governor of Mexico state (not President Vicente Fox who retreated to Guanajuato to avoid a possible stoning), stood from a balcony over looking the Zocalo and declared a whole lot of "Viva Zapata... Viva las Aztecas..." The crowd screamed back, "Viva!" with every announcement. Finally, he yelled his "VIVA MEXICO" and the crowd went wild. I laughed at myself as I pounded my fist in the air with excitement and cheered along. We then turned around to watch an impressive fireworks display that was shot off, not over a distant water or field as we are accustomed to in the good ol' US of A but, over our very heads. I swore that if I didn't sufficate in the crowd, it'd be death by pyrotechnics. But all was safe, and with an extraordinary finale to boot. It was one of the best Independence Days I've ever had.

The Big Picture

Mexico City. La Ciudad. D.F. Beautiful, vibrant, chaotic, intense, friendly, loud, dangerous, exciting. My home for a year. The group of us working in Mexico touched down in Mexico City the early afternoon of August 28. We have been running around ever since. My mind has not been able to rest and my senses are on complete overload.

Un poco de la historia. So, in brief, the PRI, centrist party, had ruled the country for over 70 years. It essentially served as a dictatorship, incorporating most unions, associations, and organizations, and was corrupt by all measures. In 1994 NAFTA, developed under Bush I's watch and signed into law under Clinton's, with promises of better economic opportunities for Mexico, went into affect. In 2000 the PRI lost the presidency to the PAN, right-wing party, which continued on with privatizing Mexico's markets.

Comercio libre. Essentially, the policies that the US, PRI (centrist) and PAN (right-wing) have implemented, enforced and/or promoted are creating an even larger class divide in Mexico (and the U.S., for that matter, as we are beginning to see middle class jobs threatened with globalization- not immigration) and are forcing many rural Mexicans to leave their homes for larger cities and often el otro lado (U.S.). An example of what happens is this: A small farmer in southern Mexico has for decades grown corn to sell in the market. He does moderately well and can afford to live a poor, but liveable life. Suddenly, he is not able to sell his corn at the market because there is a vendor at the other end of the market selling corn for half the price. The corn has been imported in from either the U.S. or Canada and is able to be sold at a significantly lower price because of the HUGE subsidies the U.S. and Canadian governments gives to enormous agri-business corporations like ConAgra and Monsanto.

La migración. The farmer and others like him can longer afford to feed their families because their only ability to make money in the rural area has been threatened. The farmers then decide to move to the city to find work. The city is huge, crowded, expensive (in fact, many prices at the grocery store I went to today, which is incidentally owned by Wal-Mart, have just slightly lower prices than the Giant where I shopped in Washingon, D.C.) and there is little work. If the farmer actually finds formal employment (through a business or company) he probably makes the Mexican minimum wage of barely $5 a day. But most often he is earning through the informal economy by selling wares on the sidewalk or doing sporadic manual labor. He finally decides he cannot afford to feed and house his family anymore and makes the painful decision to leave, hoping it is temporary, for El Norte.

La situación ahorita. The July 2 elections between Andres Manual Lopez Obrador (PRD) and Felipe Calderon (PAN) are widely believed to be riddled with fraud. Lopez Obrador of the PRD (leftist party) is said to have lost the election by a little more than 200,000 votes. Sound familar? And Mexicans took to the streets. They demanded an open count of all votes. Sound familar? The Zocalo, the main plaza in the center of the city, was packed with protesters (click for a photo) in July. In August PRD voters that believe their votes were not counted in the official polls blocked a main street in acts of civil disobedience. Currently, there is a huge planton, large tent city, on the Zocalo and throughout the central area of the city, of protesters vowing they will be there until there is a full recount. Last week President Vicente Fox was set to give his last Informe, State of the Union, to Congress but decided not to because PRD members in Congress stood where he would be (another photo) giving it carrying signs accusing him of aiding in the fraud to make Calderon the winner. Calderon of the PAN (right-wing party that holds the presidency now with Vicente Fox) this week was declared president by the highest court in the land. Sound familiar? Added to that is Mexican Idenpendence Day this September 15 and 16. With the country so divided and feeling angry and frustrated with the political system and the continual plummeting of quality of life, this is sure to be an interesting and inspiring next couple of months.

¿Qué signífica eso? You all know I love politics. I especially love it when the disenfranchised organize and demand justice. But I am writing this hoping that this can give a decent portrayal of the macro-context in which I'll be working. More importantly, the situation in which Mexico's poor, working class and middle class have to work and live. The farmer mentioned earlier is the face of who picks our tomatoes in Florida. He is the man that cleans our office building in San Francisco. He works endless hours in a chicken processing plant in the Mid-west. Or he paints our house in Washington, D.C. (despite our protests- shout out to the Emmaus girls). There is a direct connection between the economic state in Mexico and the U.S. And while we often are given numbers and statistics on a large scale, we are seldom asked to know the individuals and their stories within the masses. And incredibly complex individuals with deeply moving stories they are.