Change

Please forgive me, stranger on the plane. You sit beside me plugged into your music and I keep to myself with my nose in my book. But the unrequited love of my novel or the aerial view of expansive rows of agriculture remind me of the world I am leaving behind. My nose crinkles up and one tear escapes; but then I begin to weep full hot tears of spicy tacos and the dim lighting of our mosquito-infested Frisbee fields, of dodging horse dung and grasshoppers on the short walk to class and the meaningful talks Maggie and I would dive into on the bus rides to avert our attention from the lunacy of traffic. 

I was  feeling completely discombobulated when we disembarked the plane. Everything was shiny and flashing and on sale. I stared up at the screens displaying departures to every corner of the world until I saw him for the third time. He’d been napping on the plane a row ahead of me. He’d let me pass him in security as he juggled his shoes and luggage. Now he sidled up to my right and we fell in step as we headed for the same plane to Seattle. I got so lost in conversation with this nice guy from Cuernavaca that I forgot that I’d been overstimulated and upset...and where we were going. But getting lost in the huge terminal was of little consequence as my entire being sighed with the familiarity of our common tongue. Sometimes God sends us angels when we need them the most.

And now as my mom and I wind our way up and down the West Coast, carving out our play time for just us, I am playing my own game. I am playing tug of war between the present and the past as I embrace the fall weather and the vampires offering me Snickers bars and waterfalls and pancakes. I want to appreciate this adventure as an isolated chapter – a fantastic opportunity to pioneer the West with my best friend and my inspiration. But even in the most serene moments, life’s not as simple as mojitos and scenic drives, because this journey is bridging the gap between what was and an unknown future. Not only am I marching into unemployment in my parents’ basement, which I know will inevitably unfurl into another impactful pile of life lessons and business ventures, but I am being hurled into American life like a trans-national human cannonball. I’m learning how to adapt to hurling. So while I’m trying to savor every morsel of these pumpkin pancakes, I’m also lost in the memories of the place I just left. My heart is aching for my friend – he never stops laughing, never stopped holding me up, but he must be so exhausted from studying full time and caring full time for his ailing mother.  I left another friend in the midst of emotional turmoil and all I want to do is hug her. I close my eyes and over the Deep South accents discussing music in the seats behind us, I can hear Augustín panting as he streaks up the hill to arrive first to class, and Dona Rosa’s cow mooing off in the distance. My heart was on the mend when I left Mexico – I had scooped up the bits and held them together every night as I curled into my squeaky bunk bed, but as it had a tendency to break apart in its fragile state, I’m not sure if every fragment made it into my overweight baggage.  

On the outside it looks like we haven’t a care in the world. But you can’t see my tug of war game - my heart torn between worlds. I can’t explain why I marvel at toilets with seats that actually flush paper or why I would return to a land without them. I can’t explain why I love the smells of donkey dung, burn piles and myrrh. I can’t explain why fourteen children or teammates who may never bridge the gap of ever-lasting friendship made such a deep impression in my soul. Consequently, I can’t explain why I am testy and impatient; why I have such a profound sense of ache and longing when the scenery from this train is beautiful, the food is rich, the company is sweet and the future is bright (albeit unilluminated). The best advice I’ve gotten so far is fake it til you make it. My friend was talking about love, but I think it’s applicable here too – just power through and live in the moment and eventually the energy you pretend to have will seep into your real mindset. One can only hope.

San Miguel de Allende

The Queretero tournament was quite an adventure. Only five of my teammates from Pachamamas went, so we were split up onto different teams rather than playing together. On Sunday, I hadn’t intended to play and really wanted to go to museums, but I kept waiting and waiting until the decision was essentially made for me. Why is it the case that moving to a foreign country doesn’t faze me, but the idea of leaving my team and going into the city for a day by myself makes my heart race? I realize that there are lots of open factors and unknowns, but that doesn’t explain my calm about big changes and neurotic anxieties about small things out of my control. Lately I’ve been trying to plan like mad – how do I get to practice next week? What will we eat when we get home from work on Wednesday? What time should we leave work to pick up tortillas? It’s like I’m clinging desperately, obsessing some might say, over things that I have some autonomy over because there is so much more swirling above me that is entirely out of my hands. It’s a very exhausting dichotomy.

Anyway, after we went to dinner in the center, I went home with Pablo, a friend from Pachamamas who’d just moved to Queretero, who was crashing at his friend’s place. He’d expressed interest in accompanying me to San Miguel and thus became my travel buddy for the rest of the weekend.  We woke up on Monday morning and headed for the bus station for the one-hour trip to San Miguel. I felt calm and free. As a background, I’d like to tell you that it was important for me to go to this city because this was the town where my mom’s friend, Joyce, lived for 10 years. It was she who inspired me, really. I had always said I wanted to go abroad and then one day she told me she and her husband picked up and moved here. And I thought, “Oh, you can just do that? Cool!” She made me realize that you don’t need an excuse to do what you want to do – just figure it out and go. So I wanted to pay a tribute to her and visit this funky pueblo.

 It was just as she described it – artsy and charming. There were expats on every corner. You could distinguish the foreigners by the way they stood, by their shoes, their maps and Ibuprofen bottles (after a long weekend and another pulled quad I secretly coveted their over-the-counter pharmaceuticals, but I kept walking).

Pablo was a fabulous travel partner – so relaxed, similar non-agenda and interests and a fabulous conversationalist.  We spontaneously hopped another bus to Atonontilco, famous for its sanctuary, but not much else. The church was known as the site where San Miguel Hidalgo assembled the community to march to San Miguel de Allende and initiate the grito (the shout) that began the War of Independence. They grabbed the flag of the Virgin Guadalupe to rally behind. This rallying point started a great conversation about how even with official separation of church and state, everything is so connected to Catholicism that the government is very similar to a theocracy. Many of my friends in Cholula resent this because they don’t practice a faith. Recently, Calderón stated that even though we may not be all practitioners or believers, we are all “Guadalupanos” (of the Virgin Guadalupe). This really upset my friend:“How can you make such blanket statements about who I am?” And yet, even those most disconnected from the church still tend to cross themselves and have confirmation ceremonies. It really is a very interesting culture of faith here.

 Anyway, we walked to the end of the world – down a long cobblestone path that led out of the town, or at least to the mezcal distillery whose owner greeted us at the elaborate iron gate. ”I’m 67 years old! I have 7 sons and daughters here and I’ve seen them grow up here!” We took a step back from his strong breath. Apparently he’d been in charge of taste-testing that day. “One day, with more calm, you can come back and have a look around!....Well, come on in!” We didn’t stay long or score any samples, but we did get a peek at his giant plantation. Then we back-tracked to the sanctuary and the other half of the town with the store, restaurant, paper shop and rows of tents selling rosaries. We leaned on an old pickup truck while doctoring our cans of Modelo Negro with salt and lime and continued talking about religion.

 We wandered a bit more around San Miguel and then got on the return bus to Queretero where we parted ways. I’m not sure what I would’ve done had Pablo not been there to offer me a bed and hold my hand. But the more hesitant I became, the more I realized how important it was for me to go. I continue to attempt to let things work themselves out, as is the Mexican way, but it may kill me first. Maybe someday I’ll be less tightly-wound. I keep doing things like jumping buses to unknown places and getting haircuts in a foreign language, throwing my agenda to the winds, but I’m not sure if it’s helping or just giving me high blood pressure. I’m having a damn good time trying to figure out the answer, though. And my hair doesn’t look too bad, either.

The Dance of Fire and Rights

Two weeks ago I participated in an ocote – the fire dance to celebrate the saints. The whole town rallies behind the band and parades from mayordomo to mayordomo, church caretakers, to ask for tamales and atole and to light the next ocote. The ocote itself is a holy (and holey) bucket of fire kept lit by special incense-infused wood. It’s like Mexican trick or treating - an indigenous superimposed with Catholic ideology. I went to bed before they lit the toro fireworks. Those are the worst in my book – a big basket of fireworks that kids carry around on their backs that shoot off in the town square (you might remember I wrote about them in April). We paraded through the town for four hours and at each home we’d dance around the flames and toast with Styrofoam shots of tequila. I’d had quite a few tamales as well, having not been able to fill up on chicken innards and yolk fetuses that our hosts offered us (yup you read that right – the stew actually wasn’t too bad, except when I ate what I believe was a kidney. And the yolks tasted just like they do after they’ve been expelled from the chicken, but ultimately I saved my appetite for the tamales).

 The rockets went off all night. At some point I dreamt they’d switched to cannons, but I think it was just the case that the parade got closer. The next morning after helping the grandmothers make tamales, I went with Maricela and her family for another round of the parade. We ate MORE tamales and carried a bouquet behind the Virgin Guadalupe along with 3 different adornments of flowers – red, pink and white (each has a different purpose – love, donations and something else) each strung with symbolic gifts: apples, peppers, bottles of tequila, bees nests, etc. We marched behind the same band that had been playing all night long and stopped at another mayordomo’s home for ice cream and soda. I think my teeth might fall out by the time I leave….

When I came back to Tecuanipan from Cholula that afternoon we passed by Orlando’s parents’ home for dinner. Delicious tortillas with rice, chicken and mole. The in-laws brought the tequila. As is the custom, the tequila is not rightfully the property of the ‘owner’ of the bottle. It is his or her duty to empty the bottle by sharing shots with everyone. Naturally, being the traditionalists that we are and dedicated to our quest to connect profoundly with the community, we were very intoxicated by 6:30. It was incredibly pleasant to dine with the family, to check out all of Orlando’s toys and watch his dad play with his sister. We listened to Orlando’s father recount his memories of 9/11 in New York and tell us about his trials and triumphs during his time in the US. He said that he had no interest whatsoever in returning to the States now that he has his children to consider. This was a fresh perspective from the focus on American dollars as the main means of family support.

The following Tuesday evening, I stepped out of my routine again. I decided not to go to frisbee practice, but instead to stay in Tecuanipan for the festival of San Fransisco – the last day of the fair. We went to our neighbors’ for their party. As with all of the mayordomos’ gatherings, the party was open to the entire town and free dinner for everyone. As soon as we sat down with Maricela and Renato, we were served rice, chicken and mole, hot tortillas and a cold Victoria. We were simultaneously approached by two very intoxicated older women (heretofore known as the tequila ladies) with half a bottle. Same deal – they pour you a shot, they toast with you. The problem was, as this was a much bigger party than the dinner at Orlando’s house, there were many, many bottles of tequila going around.

As much as I’ve assimilated to Mexican life here, I will never be able to eat chicken and mole with a plastic spoon. I left a splatter ring at my white place setting, somehow flung it into my eye, and graciously accepted Ina’s continuous and subtle indications to mole stains on various parts of my body. After most of my dinner and my second round of toasting with the patrons (or 3^rd?), a young mariachi left his post and asked me to dance. Once he’d returned to his guitar, I was petitioned by two other significantly older and more intoxicated gentlemen who would rotate dances between Ina and me until the gifts ceremony began.  They mayordomos offer presents of gratitude to everyone who helped with the festivities – bottles of tequila or soda, baskets of tamales, mole, etc. Then the recipients dance in a conga line with the gifts to show their appreciation. It’s really beautiful, but my friend Pablo says that it’s for this tradition that no one gives refrigerators as wedding presents.

I chuckled when the first tequila lady handed Ina a new bottle and made her hop in line. That was until she returned with an empty Squirt bottle and towed me into the dance – apparently the rules relax a bit after a few rounds. Then I had the pleasure of dancing with Goretti – Maricela and Renato’s youngest daughter – and tequila lady #2. I think this was the highlight for me – with the two of them we shared pure joy, no rhythm and not a single preoccupation as we twirled and jumped to the mariachis’ music. The rockets continued to blast off above the tarp that covered the yard. The ground was littered with beer bottle caps (which I’d scrounge for later with the aspirations of making earrings), Styrofoam cups and as the many stray dogs hoped to find, chicken bones. I quietly offered my fat and gristle to Orejón who wagged unceasingly under the table and followed Ina around the dance floor every time she received an offer.

I had to leave at 7:30 to catch the bus, but I was so grateful to have gotten the chance to witness and be part of such a great party. Unfortunately, the bus schedule caused me to miss the men pole dancing, which came just after the next round of tequila toasts…

There’s another perspective to these festivals, however. My friend Julian’s father was a church guardian for many years. He attended all of the parties and the services, rang the bells, shot off the rockets, danced in the parades…When I told him about the ceremonies I’d attended his expression turned sour. “They spend all of their money on rockets and rice for celebrations. They pocket the rest. What about social services and paving roads and helping the poor? Where do you think all of that extra money goes for the offerings once they’re done paying off the party? Hmm?” Don Manuel is one of the most kind-hearted and religious people I have met in Mexico. But for all of the years he dedicated to its service, he has now turned away from the church because he can no longer bear the burden of knowing many of the corrupt truths. They put these parties on and tell all of the townspeople to be good servants to the church and to God, and then defy their own sermons in favor of personal gain and power. (These are his words.) We talked for a long time about how to approach life while you know such truths. And while Don Manuel may not have changed the church, he has indeed influenced his own community and made change by the way he raised his children. They run an honest and communal business among them. They are socially responsible and are raising his granddaughters to be independent and strong women. They are all truly good people, inspiring others (including myself). Is that enough to fight the power of corruption? Mmm. Dunno. But take a look at what’s happening all over the world right now: on Wall Street, in Sol Square, in Egypt, in the parlor of Lito’s Pizza in Cholula, Mexico.

We went into Puebla today, October 15, to shop around and take a stroll around the square. There is a demonstration going on in Puebla today that is in solidarity with the huge protest going on two hours west in Mexico City. People all over the world are pissed at how politicians are defining democracy and how the economy is managed by the top few percent. There were signs of indignation and also of hope: people writing that they are neither for the right or the left, but simply from and for the bottom to work its way up into equality. We met some incredibly inspiring people, which was really cool because as I write this, I realize that we are a lot like the kids we met today. We, too, are playing an important part in redefining our economic values, in connecting with them and with the people of Tecuanipan, and in the choices that we are making.  In the context of street dancing behind a tuba and ducking rockets or in that of the demonstrations happening everywhere, being a part of community gatherings has been a pretty monumental aspect of my life recently, and in itself is an exceptionally powerful experience.