The room is empty and my bags are packed. In five hours, I will be on my way to Mexico City to spend one last night in Mexico. Danny and I got a nice hotel and plan to have one last toast and go out in style. I came home last night around 4:30am after spending my last night with my dear friend here. However, there was no pill strong enough to make me sleep. I watched the sun rise, blazing over the neighboring jacaranda trees and I thought about how much I appreciated the warmth of the Mexican sun when I arrived in January. No offense Minnesota, but it truly does make a difference to have more vitamin D.
The day began with my roommate and I making our last trip to the amazing bakery by our school. As we walked, we reminisced about the places we visited, the people we met there, and the incredible memories we made together. As we sipped coffee, a huge smile spread across my face as it became obvious how incredible my time here was.
Despite my shaking hands and the constant butterflies I cannot shake, I know eventually any sadness about what I’m leaving, or fear about what I will face when I return will be surpassed by my overwhelming confidence in the fact that I know for certain in my heart I lived my life the fullest in Mexico. I allowed myself to take risks, I connected deeply with people here and made lifelong friends, and surprisingly, I allowed my apprehensions to fall to the wayside and got on a stranger’s motorcycle. I burned my leg on the exhaust pipe and I now have a scar I believe will last my entire life. But, this scar will not serve as a reminder to be careful. In fact, it stands as the opposite, it will forever remind me of the amazing adventures you find when you let go and let your heart lead you.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Money Talks As Loud As Rocks
We’ve all heard the story before, a peaceful town is invaded by a corporate force and before you know your table is no longer set with fresh vegetables bought from the farmer’s market, but rather horrible, mass produced pseudo-meat products and generic flatware. The local competition practically dissipates in the middle of the night. Even the hands that once held picket signs protesting the monopolized take over, now reach for “the best value, at the best price.”
I have seen this in my own hometown with the arrival of Wal Mart. Many locals cried out, forewarning that by allowing Wal Mart to build on the outskirts of town, the business would be drained out of our beloved main street. Now, grant it our main street at the time donned three antique shops, a dog bathing business and an insurance firm, their premonitions were justified nonetheless. However, ironically, a few months later, these oracles were seen stocking up on half-priced back-to-school supplies at, where else, Wal Mart.
Well, you can be sure that the same scenario happens over and over around the world. Here, instead of a giant smiley face as a nemesis, Mexicanos have the giant pelican to fear. The giant pelican is the symbol for the Wal Mart equivalent: Comercial Mexicana. Comercial Mexicana is a chain of supermarkets and restaurants that has outgrown local markets, local governments, and local cries that protested the construction of Comercial Mexicana stores on land illegally obtained. So, I wonder: Who are these people and what planet do they come from?
I think we will all be in accord when I say corporations are comprised of people (okay, and occasionally robots). And usually, the main work force of these corporations include local citizens of the areas they wish to reside in. So if this is the case, at what point do corporations seem to become so detached from their communities, and in essence, humanity? Is it a case of powerlessness, in which David doesn’t actually hit Goliath with the small rock, but rather misses and Goliath forces him to buy two sets of flatware for the price of one? OR is it a case of corporations just giving the public what it demands: convenience in exchange for freedom?
In a state of Neoliberalism, it’s hard to point fingers at competitors for competing. As one business man here in Mexico puts it, “business has no nationality.” However, I would have to disagree with this and say if a business has employees, it has nationality. I am almost certain that the employees at the Mega here in Mexico either live next to, or know somebody who is a local vendor. And at the least they are all citizens of Mexico and care about the state of their communities.
Maybe it’s a more a question of citizen voice. How much “say” (actions or words) do you feel you have in the economics of your community? Where is your own business nationality? Because when it comes down to it, David isn’t actually holding a rock, he’s holding dinero, and he can decide which Goliath to pay.
I have seen this in my own hometown with the arrival of Wal Mart. Many locals cried out, forewarning that by allowing Wal Mart to build on the outskirts of town, the business would be drained out of our beloved main street. Now, grant it our main street at the time donned three antique shops, a dog bathing business and an insurance firm, their premonitions were justified nonetheless. However, ironically, a few months later, these oracles were seen stocking up on half-priced back-to-school supplies at, where else, Wal Mart.
Well, you can be sure that the same scenario happens over and over around the world. Here, instead of a giant smiley face as a nemesis, Mexicanos have the giant pelican to fear. The giant pelican is the symbol for the Wal Mart equivalent: Comercial Mexicana. Comercial Mexicana is a chain of supermarkets and restaurants that has outgrown local markets, local governments, and local cries that protested the construction of Comercial Mexicana stores on land illegally obtained. So, I wonder: Who are these people and what planet do they come from?
I think we will all be in accord when I say corporations are comprised of people (okay, and occasionally robots). And usually, the main work force of these corporations include local citizens of the areas they wish to reside in. So if this is the case, at what point do corporations seem to become so detached from their communities, and in essence, humanity? Is it a case of powerlessness, in which David doesn’t actually hit Goliath with the small rock, but rather misses and Goliath forces him to buy two sets of flatware for the price of one? OR is it a case of corporations just giving the public what it demands: convenience in exchange for freedom?
In a state of Neoliberalism, it’s hard to point fingers at competitors for competing. As one business man here in Mexico puts it, “business has no nationality.” However, I would have to disagree with this and say if a business has employees, it has nationality. I am almost certain that the employees at the Mega here in Mexico either live next to, or know somebody who is a local vendor. And at the least they are all citizens of Mexico and care about the state of their communities.
Maybe it’s a more a question of citizen voice. How much “say” (actions or words) do you feel you have in the economics of your community? Where is your own business nationality? Because when it comes down to it, David isn’t actually holding a rock, he’s holding dinero, and he can decide which Goliath to pay.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Trust
Well, after three days, the man who stood me up finally called…to reveal “he wasn’t feeling well on Saturday.” Needless to say, this defense was less than sufficient.
However, in an attempt to be resilient, the immense reevaluation that is rendered from moments like this in a relationship are absolutely invaluable, even if they never produce any clear absolutes. I found myself Monday morning, still sans phone call, thinking, ’Okay, so if I never hear from this guy again, what do I take away from all this?’ And despite scanning my entire heart for a lesson learned, I still haven’t found any answers. I did, however, find another question: When is it okay to trust someone?
I decided to explore this question today when I was on the bus with a woman I regard here as A Golden Person, meaning somebody I have found to be incredible in the way they live their life, thus forever elevating my standard of living. And truly, this woman has an inspiring spirit, encapsulating great compassion everyday, despite tribulations I cannot even comprehend in my twenty-two years of life. As with every conversation I have with this woman, I was sure I would gain some new insight.
I began telling her my situation, sparing no details about everything this man did that made me think he was trustworthy. On and on I went about our conversations, our adventures, even the look in his eyes that made me so sure that he was a sincere man of genuine character. I mean, this man had been one of my best friends here for the last two months, how could he possibly tell me he wants to see me and then not call for three days with no consideration of my feelings. AND THEN to tell me the reasons for his actions were that he just simply didn’t feel good…who is this guy?!
And then, in the mists of my rant, a sharp realization stopped me, I was speaking to a woman who’s husband decided to have an affair after fifteen years of marriage.
This realization froze my flow of words and all I could do was look at this incredible woman, whose eyes have never lost their warm, inviting gleam in all the time I have known her. I stared at her for what must have been five minutes before I mustered under my breath the question, “How do you survive?” And for a minute I noticed her strong, but kind eyes, change to reveal what I would label as human vulnerability.
She told me she survives by taking in the small joys in life, everyday picking out the small trinkets that make life beautiful. Then, she looked at me and stated very matter-of-factly, “I am happy when I am doing what I enjoy doing.” A simple, but powerful phrase, because within this phrase the source of your happiness is simply yourself.
I made a promise to myself about a year ago that I would never lose my faith in love. No matter how many heartbreaks I go through, I will always find a way to someday enter again into a relationship with a willingness to once again try to truly care for another person to the best of my ability. Grant it, this is exactly why I don’t love often. However, realizing the fact that I am young and my heart has many risks to extract from, my principle love is myself and for the rest of my time here in Mexico, I will exercise doing what I enjoy doing.
However, in an attempt to be resilient, the immense reevaluation that is rendered from moments like this in a relationship are absolutely invaluable, even if they never produce any clear absolutes. I found myself Monday morning, still sans phone call, thinking, ’Okay, so if I never hear from this guy again, what do I take away from all this?’ And despite scanning my entire heart for a lesson learned, I still haven’t found any answers. I did, however, find another question: When is it okay to trust someone?
I decided to explore this question today when I was on the bus with a woman I regard here as A Golden Person, meaning somebody I have found to be incredible in the way they live their life, thus forever elevating my standard of living. And truly, this woman has an inspiring spirit, encapsulating great compassion everyday, despite tribulations I cannot even comprehend in my twenty-two years of life. As with every conversation I have with this woman, I was sure I would gain some new insight.
I began telling her my situation, sparing no details about everything this man did that made me think he was trustworthy. On and on I went about our conversations, our adventures, even the look in his eyes that made me so sure that he was a sincere man of genuine character. I mean, this man had been one of my best friends here for the last two months, how could he possibly tell me he wants to see me and then not call for three days with no consideration of my feelings. AND THEN to tell me the reasons for his actions were that he just simply didn’t feel good…who is this guy?!
And then, in the mists of my rant, a sharp realization stopped me, I was speaking to a woman who’s husband decided to have an affair after fifteen years of marriage.
This realization froze my flow of words and all I could do was look at this incredible woman, whose eyes have never lost their warm, inviting gleam in all the time I have known her. I stared at her for what must have been five minutes before I mustered under my breath the question, “How do you survive?” And for a minute I noticed her strong, but kind eyes, change to reveal what I would label as human vulnerability.
She told me she survives by taking in the small joys in life, everyday picking out the small trinkets that make life beautiful. Then, she looked at me and stated very matter-of-factly, “I am happy when I am doing what I enjoy doing.” A simple, but powerful phrase, because within this phrase the source of your happiness is simply yourself.
I made a promise to myself about a year ago that I would never lose my faith in love. No matter how many heartbreaks I go through, I will always find a way to someday enter again into a relationship with a willingness to once again try to truly care for another person to the best of my ability. Grant it, this is exactly why I don’t love often. However, realizing the fact that I am young and my heart has many risks to extract from, my principle love is myself and for the rest of my time here in Mexico, I will exercise doing what I enjoy doing.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Love In Any Form Is Never Trivial
Today, being it was Easter Sunday, I decided to pursue a spiritual experience. For me, Easter is about reflecting on blessings and new beginnings, and what better place to do that then on top of a mountain. So, today was the day I decided to go to nearby town called Tepotzotlan. Tepotzotlan is a small, but bustling town nestled among rolling hills and blooming jacaranda trees. The name “Tepotzotlan” is actually derived from a náhuatl word meaning "among hunchbacks,“ referring to the high mountains which resemble humps.
However, before I actually arrived in Tepotzotlan, I decided to meet with some friends at a small café called, “Café de Poetas” or “The Poets Café”. This café has become one of my “usual” spots here due to the amazing sandwiches and the owners allowing me to plug in my iPod and single-handedly control the music selection that blares from two, huge speakers down the cobblestone streets next to the Palacio de Cortez. It’s quite an empowering feeling.
However, when I arrived at the café it was closed, so I settled on a ledge plugged in my iPod and began to hydrate for the challenging climb ahead. It wasn’t long until one of the employees of the café came walking by and sat next to me.
(translated from Spanish)
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much, I’m going to Tepo. today to climb the mountain.”
“Oh very cool! Yeah I’m supposed to open the café today, but I’m so tired. Do you want some company in Tepotzotlan?”
“I’m going with my friends, but sure, why not.”
And just like that, the café remained closed and we added a fourth compadre to our excursion.
The hike was hard. If it wasn’t for the inspirational scene of countless people twice my age passing me (one barefoot), it would have taken me ‘till sundown. But, I did indeed make it to the top to behold a stunning view. I sat there, back against a pyramid, overlooking the valley of mountains. I watched the birds circle above me and pondered, ‘how in the world did a group of people build an entire pyramid up here.’
However, as much as I’d like to reveal a deep and profound realization, most of my thoughts were centered around something quite trivial. I could not stop thinking about how a man, whom I have truly come to care about here, stood me up Saturday night and still hadn’t called to apologize. Over and over I tried to solve the age-old riddle of, “why do people make promises they don’t intend to keep”. If I had come up with anything, I promise I would share it with you all, but I’m still at square one.
Although, something did occur to me: as people, we are so desperate to be loved. Whether that love comes from God, our family, our friends, or an alluring man with a motorcycle, it’s this innate craving that will always dominate us. It’s also this primal pursuit that brings out both the best and the worst in us, and if there’s any holiday that demonstrates that, it’s Easter; and if there’s any guy who understands the pursuit of perfect love among imperfect people, it’s Jesus. But it’s exactly this search for love that defines our lives. In fact, I sincerely hope that on my final day I can say it was the pursuit to receive and give love that presided over my actions and defined my life. And I guess when I take on that perspective, thinking about a man when I’m sitting on top of the world doesn’t seem so trivial after all.
However, before I actually arrived in Tepotzotlan, I decided to meet with some friends at a small café called, “Café de Poetas” or “The Poets Café”. This café has become one of my “usual” spots here due to the amazing sandwiches and the owners allowing me to plug in my iPod and single-handedly control the music selection that blares from two, huge speakers down the cobblestone streets next to the Palacio de Cortez. It’s quite an empowering feeling.
However, when I arrived at the café it was closed, so I settled on a ledge plugged in my iPod and began to hydrate for the challenging climb ahead. It wasn’t long until one of the employees of the café came walking by and sat next to me.
(translated from Spanish)
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much, I’m going to Tepo. today to climb the mountain.”
“Oh very cool! Yeah I’m supposed to open the café today, but I’m so tired. Do you want some company in Tepotzotlan?”
“I’m going with my friends, but sure, why not.”
And just like that, the café remained closed and we added a fourth compadre to our excursion.
The hike was hard. If it wasn’t for the inspirational scene of countless people twice my age passing me (one barefoot), it would have taken me ‘till sundown. But, I did indeed make it to the top to behold a stunning view. I sat there, back against a pyramid, overlooking the valley of mountains. I watched the birds circle above me and pondered, ‘how in the world did a group of people build an entire pyramid up here.’
However, as much as I’d like to reveal a deep and profound realization, most of my thoughts were centered around something quite trivial. I could not stop thinking about how a man, whom I have truly come to care about here, stood me up Saturday night and still hadn’t called to apologize. Over and over I tried to solve the age-old riddle of, “why do people make promises they don’t intend to keep”. If I had come up with anything, I promise I would share it with you all, but I’m still at square one.
Although, something did occur to me: as people, we are so desperate to be loved. Whether that love comes from God, our family, our friends, or an alluring man with a motorcycle, it’s this innate craving that will always dominate us. It’s also this primal pursuit that brings out both the best and the worst in us, and if there’s any holiday that demonstrates that, it’s Easter; and if there’s any guy who understands the pursuit of perfect love among imperfect people, it’s Jesus. But it’s exactly this search for love that defines our lives. In fact, I sincerely hope that on my final day I can say it was the pursuit to receive and give love that presided over my actions and defined my life. And I guess when I take on that perspective, thinking about a man when I’m sitting on top of the world doesn’t seem so trivial after all.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Today I Hate Numbers
I am currently sitting in an air-conditioned Starbucks feeling the most “in-my-element” I’ve felt since January. What this says about my heritage, I don’t really care to explore at the moment. All I know is that I am so happy to have a venti café del dia in my hand right now. However, despite my blissful leisure, I find myself thinking about the kids I work with at VAMOS.
Statistically, these kids are one of many. One of many children who are labeled as “low income”, “underprivileged,” “undereducated”, and my personal label of, “lacking opportunities that other kids have, which is supposed to be directly correlated to their projected success.” But the problem with all of these labels is that they were derived from a top-down view of statistics. On ground level, when you are face-to-face with a young person, you will find it impossible to say or even think of classifying that young person with one of those labels. They are not a statistic, they are a person, and they most certainly are not limited. So what use are these statistics anyways?
Typically, statistics are used to numerically connect things to our world so that we can find relevance among them. However, usually, statistics are used by people to gain insight into another world, a glimpse into something that is not their own, thus the need for numerical description. If asked, I could not provide you with one statistic that I use to describe myself. And if you were asked, I highly doubt you could provide many negative statistics you identify with. And if you do identify with a negative statistic, you probably only use it to defend yourself to others. My point is, a kid who goes to VAMOS will never need to know any statistics that tells them they’re limited.
And with that considered, if they don’t need to know these statistics, why do I? I’ve been working in education for the last four years and to me, statistics only present a present state, not a future goal. And even if they are statistics that shine an optimistic light, they only tell me how a child did on their last test or how attendance has improved. Statistics have never once relayed to me how a child feels more empowered.
And in case there are some stats fans reading this, here is the reason numbers are bothering me today: when it comes to kids “lacking opportunities that other kids have which is supposed to be directly correlated to their projected success,” they are so often grouped into numbers to give others an insight into their world. But I don’t see these kids as numbers and I don’t want others to. I could go home after this experience and relay these statistics: “I worked in a classroom of about 20 kids. About 50% of these kids are reading and writing at a proficient level. I sit between two kids, ages 6 and 11, both working on the same math problem.” But, these numbers say nothing about the 11-year-old’s determination and resourcefulness. They also don’t say anything about the incredible, artistic talent the 6-year-old has. And without this information, these children are only numbers, and like I said before, today I am not a fan of numbers. I am a fan of information that highlights a child’s potential rather than their limits.
Statistically, these kids are one of many. One of many children who are labeled as “low income”, “underprivileged,” “undereducated”, and my personal label of, “lacking opportunities that other kids have, which is supposed to be directly correlated to their projected success.” But the problem with all of these labels is that they were derived from a top-down view of statistics. On ground level, when you are face-to-face with a young person, you will find it impossible to say or even think of classifying that young person with one of those labels. They are not a statistic, they are a person, and they most certainly are not limited. So what use are these statistics anyways?
Typically, statistics are used to numerically connect things to our world so that we can find relevance among them. However, usually, statistics are used by people to gain insight into another world, a glimpse into something that is not their own, thus the need for numerical description. If asked, I could not provide you with one statistic that I use to describe myself. And if you were asked, I highly doubt you could provide many negative statistics you identify with. And if you do identify with a negative statistic, you probably only use it to defend yourself to others. My point is, a kid who goes to VAMOS will never need to know any statistics that tells them they’re limited.
And with that considered, if they don’t need to know these statistics, why do I? I’ve been working in education for the last four years and to me, statistics only present a present state, not a future goal. And even if they are statistics that shine an optimistic light, they only tell me how a child did on their last test or how attendance has improved. Statistics have never once relayed to me how a child feels more empowered.
And in case there are some stats fans reading this, here is the reason numbers are bothering me today: when it comes to kids “lacking opportunities that other kids have which is supposed to be directly correlated to their projected success,” they are so often grouped into numbers to give others an insight into their world. But I don’t see these kids as numbers and I don’t want others to. I could go home after this experience and relay these statistics: “I worked in a classroom of about 20 kids. About 50% of these kids are reading and writing at a proficient level. I sit between two kids, ages 6 and 11, both working on the same math problem.” But, these numbers say nothing about the 11-year-old’s determination and resourcefulness. They also don’t say anything about the incredible, artistic talent the 6-year-old has. And without this information, these children are only numbers, and like I said before, today I am not a fan of numbers. I am a fan of information that highlights a child’s potential rather than their limits.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
A Word Is A Costume For Its Meaning
I love writing. As the sole contributor of my blog, I realize this is probably not an unveiling of shocking, personal information. But, nonetheless, I indeed love to write. However, because I love to write so much, I hate being forced to write. It’s like that scene in Matilda in which the little boy says he loves chocolate cake and as punishment, Mrs. Trunchbull presents to him an enormous, delectable chocolate cake and forces him to eat it until he physically can no longer pick up the fork. This is the cinematic equivalent of my college education’s influence on my passion for writing.
Many times in my training for how to write as a public relations pro, I practiced being quick and concise, at times writing three different press releases in two hours. You can bet this did not leave much time/room to add an element of myself in my writing. In fact, after two years of this, I began to resent writing.
But then, in my last semester at the University, I took a creative writing class that proved to be one of the most profound classes in my college career. It was profound in the way it called me to incorporate myself in my work. First, to think about what stories have derived as byproducts of your life experiences, and then incorporate them in a way that calls a human connection amongst a reader, I assure you, brings your writing to a whole new level.
And just when I thought I had escaped the humdrum of college writing, I came to Mexico to study Spanish. If any of you have attempted another language through a course, you know that writing proficiently is often regarded as the principal benchmark. Thus, I have written more pages in Spanish about my daily activities and my beliefs than I can stomach. Eventually, to save my sanity, I decided to try my hand at writing poetry in Spanish. The discovery was grand.
It was like I had discovered a whole new world of words (okay, this is indeed what actually happened). But these words and the way they are arranged revealed all new imagery. Even the smallest words can provide an entire new way of thinking about something. Take the Spanish word, por favor for example. In English, this equals ‘please’, but literally translated from Spanish you get, ‘through your favor’. This conjures the thought of, ‘my actions are only possible through your favor’, which can also grow to, ‘It is through your good graces that I can achieve what I desire for myself.” A bit verbose? Absolutely, but that’s what makes it so beautiful.
Apply this to your average pop song with the crappy lyrics: “Baby, please love me.” In English, this proves to be cliché and lame, but in Spanish you can get: “It is only through your favor of loving me, that I can feel what I need to feel.”
So there you have it, in a place where the words initially made no sense to me, I have rediscovered my love for writing because I am no longer simply translating my world…I am discovering the meanings of a new one.
Many times in my training for how to write as a public relations pro, I practiced being quick and concise, at times writing three different press releases in two hours. You can bet this did not leave much time/room to add an element of myself in my writing. In fact, after two years of this, I began to resent writing.
But then, in my last semester at the University, I took a creative writing class that proved to be one of the most profound classes in my college career. It was profound in the way it called me to incorporate myself in my work. First, to think about what stories have derived as byproducts of your life experiences, and then incorporate them in a way that calls a human connection amongst a reader, I assure you, brings your writing to a whole new level.
And just when I thought I had escaped the humdrum of college writing, I came to Mexico to study Spanish. If any of you have attempted another language through a course, you know that writing proficiently is often regarded as the principal benchmark. Thus, I have written more pages in Spanish about my daily activities and my beliefs than I can stomach. Eventually, to save my sanity, I decided to try my hand at writing poetry in Spanish. The discovery was grand.
It was like I had discovered a whole new world of words (okay, this is indeed what actually happened). But these words and the way they are arranged revealed all new imagery. Even the smallest words can provide an entire new way of thinking about something. Take the Spanish word, por favor for example. In English, this equals ‘please’, but literally translated from Spanish you get, ‘through your favor’. This conjures the thought of, ‘my actions are only possible through your favor’, which can also grow to, ‘It is through your good graces that I can achieve what I desire for myself.” A bit verbose? Absolutely, but that’s what makes it so beautiful.
Apply this to your average pop song with the crappy lyrics: “Baby, please love me.” In English, this proves to be cliché and lame, but in Spanish you can get: “It is only through your favor of loving me, that I can feel what I need to feel.”
So there you have it, in a place where the words initially made no sense to me, I have rediscovered my love for writing because I am no longer simply translating my world…I am discovering the meanings of a new one.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Sneeze That Blew Over A Cactus
There is a saying here that states, “when the United States catches a cold, Mexico catches pneumonia.” This statement implies that when a detrimental issue occurs in the U.S. it trickles South of the border, all the while gaining inertia and magnifying to something just short of catastrophe by the time it reaches Mexico City.
To further my point with some irony, take the swine flu for example. To go by the standards of the media, the swine flu was a pandemic to rival the bubonic plague. If I clung to the local news as my source for updates on the reality of the outside world, I would have taken out an extra student loan to pay for medical masks, bottles of water and the construction of my own, quarantined bomb shelter. To be less sarcastic, even just by talking to people on campus (especially those waiting in line for hours to receive their free vaccination), I was under the impression that getting the swine flu vaccine held the equivalent importance as gaining a college degree (we can’t force you to obtain it, but if you don’t, be prepared to live a much harder, less glamorous life).
However, looking at statistics, only 6% of households in the U.S. experienced a case of the swine flu, and only 10% of those cases were severe enough to cause death. And, of those deaths, majority were either over 65 years of age, or under 4 years old and had preexisting medical conditions. In short, the dreaded swine flu was not quite the bubonic plague we were expecting, and the countless gasps I heard from people when I told them I was going to Mexico without the swine flu vaccine were a bit unnecessary (but thank you for the concern).
Yet, as with any issues, the media and many U.S. citizens needed a foreign cause for this “National Emergency,” “Surging Pandemic,” or “Global Catastrophe” if you prefer. Enter - Mexico.
Back home, as the swine flu generated hysteria and created new jobs in the medical industry, the effects of this perpetuated fear snowballed its way to Mexico where it melted into a big pool of mierda. For example, many aspects of Mexico’s foreign trade, especially that dealing with pork products, came to a screeching halt. Domestic business suffered. For example, Mexico City placed a five-day halt on all unessential activities and afterwards, life did not return to normal on Monday. It was estimated Mexico City’s Chamber of Commerce lost $58 million per day during this time. And in my understanding, the most devastating effect came in the form of a huge decrease in foreign travel and tourism to and within Mexico that provides roughly $14 billion dollars annually. I’m a living example of this as I was supposed to be in this program last year, but it was cancelled due to the “causes” of the swine flu.
And now, as other topics have taken over our current events and fear has subsided (due to sighs of relief after receiving a vaccine or the simple realization that diseases will always exist and it doesn’t mean the end of the world, I’m not sure), Mexico is still trying to re-cooperate. However, as this lesson in health has taught us, while a cold can go away with rest and warm tea, pneumonia often requires x-rays, MRI’s and mucus tests. And from my understanding gained from being immersed here for two months, I would diagnose Mexico as still infected, I mean, affected.
To further my point with some irony, take the swine flu for example. To go by the standards of the media, the swine flu was a pandemic to rival the bubonic plague. If I clung to the local news as my source for updates on the reality of the outside world, I would have taken out an extra student loan to pay for medical masks, bottles of water and the construction of my own, quarantined bomb shelter. To be less sarcastic, even just by talking to people on campus (especially those waiting in line for hours to receive their free vaccination), I was under the impression that getting the swine flu vaccine held the equivalent importance as gaining a college degree (we can’t force you to obtain it, but if you don’t, be prepared to live a much harder, less glamorous life).
However, looking at statistics, only 6% of households in the U.S. experienced a case of the swine flu, and only 10% of those cases were severe enough to cause death. And, of those deaths, majority were either over 65 years of age, or under 4 years old and had preexisting medical conditions. In short, the dreaded swine flu was not quite the bubonic plague we were expecting, and the countless gasps I heard from people when I told them I was going to Mexico without the swine flu vaccine were a bit unnecessary (but thank you for the concern).
Yet, as with any issues, the media and many U.S. citizens needed a foreign cause for this “National Emergency,” “Surging Pandemic,” or “Global Catastrophe” if you prefer. Enter - Mexico.
Back home, as the swine flu generated hysteria and created new jobs in the medical industry, the effects of this perpetuated fear snowballed its way to Mexico where it melted into a big pool of mierda. For example, many aspects of Mexico’s foreign trade, especially that dealing with pork products, came to a screeching halt. Domestic business suffered. For example, Mexico City placed a five-day halt on all unessential activities and afterwards, life did not return to normal on Monday. It was estimated Mexico City’s Chamber of Commerce lost $58 million per day during this time. And in my understanding, the most devastating effect came in the form of a huge decrease in foreign travel and tourism to and within Mexico that provides roughly $14 billion dollars annually. I’m a living example of this as I was supposed to be in this program last year, but it was cancelled due to the “causes” of the swine flu.
And now, as other topics have taken over our current events and fear has subsided (due to sighs of relief after receiving a vaccine or the simple realization that diseases will always exist and it doesn’t mean the end of the world, I’m not sure), Mexico is still trying to re-cooperate. However, as this lesson in health has taught us, while a cold can go away with rest and warm tea, pneumonia often requires x-rays, MRI’s and mucus tests. And from my understanding gained from being immersed here for two months, I would diagnose Mexico as still infected, I mean, affected.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Speak A Little, Give A Lot
I’m a communications major. No, correction, I’m a strategic communications major. For the last four years, I have studied the ways in which people exchange messages. However, when it comes to thinking about everything communication actually entails, nothing in my studies has been as revealing as my time here in Mexico. It takes me about three times longer to think about how to express a sentence in Spanish. Then, once I decide how I’m going to say it, I still have the challenge of being humble enough to sound like a five-year-old and self affirmed enough to surpass the developing smile that forms across a native speaker’s face (this smile could be due to me not conjugating a verb or simple a response to my Minnesotan accent…I’m not sure).
Basically, this is just to say that I have never focused so hard on speaking. I scrutinize every word to check my tenses and meanings. Then, I think about if my words are even expressing what I mean. It seems my vocabulary bank is also suffering from the economy.
However, just when I want to fall into the defense of, “Is it really that important for me to learn Spanish, I can always find people who speak English anyways,” I hear an American having a fluent conversation with a Mexican in Spanish and my heart flutters. It flutters because I think, ‘My God, that person can communicate with millions more people simply because he/she stayed focused and worked on conjugating their gosh darn verbs.’
So, my point is, Spanish is still a huge challenge for me. Yet, I have a lot of wonderful, supportive people in my life who tell me, “Yes, but think of the job opportunities.” or “Think of the personal things you can accomplish with a second language.” But to be quite honest, my motivation does not come from future prospects.
I have made a friends here in Mexico who kindly oblige me by speaking English every time we meet and my motivation comes from the ideal day in which I can honor their language and their efforts to communicate (at least for more than two hours) .
Basically, this is just to say that I have never focused so hard on speaking. I scrutinize every word to check my tenses and meanings. Then, I think about if my words are even expressing what I mean. It seems my vocabulary bank is also suffering from the economy.
However, just when I want to fall into the defense of, “Is it really that important for me to learn Spanish, I can always find people who speak English anyways,” I hear an American having a fluent conversation with a Mexican in Spanish and my heart flutters. It flutters because I think, ‘My God, that person can communicate with millions more people simply because he/she stayed focused and worked on conjugating their gosh darn verbs.’
So, my point is, Spanish is still a huge challenge for me. Yet, I have a lot of wonderful, supportive people in my life who tell me, “Yes, but think of the job opportunities.” or “Think of the personal things you can accomplish with a second language.” But to be quite honest, my motivation does not come from future prospects.
I have made a friends here in Mexico who kindly oblige me by speaking English every time we meet and my motivation comes from the ideal day in which I can honor their language and their efforts to communicate (at least for more than two hours) .
Monday, March 15, 2010
Money Talks, Especially When You Can't
Earlier today I was at a café. I was sitting at a small table, listening to a wonderful jazz band practice while sipping on a café americano. Admittedly, everything was pretty blissful. As I sat there, I journaled about how I felt everything was becoming more comfortable and the little details that make Cuernavaca so great. Time was running short and as an American, I was the only one who felt this way (here, a check never comes before you ask for it). SO, I flagged down the waitress, told her I was in a bit of a hurry and asked if I could just pay her without the whole painfully, time-consuming process of her registering what I had to drink, printing a check, and finding a small tray to place the check on to put it on the table. Okay, sure, no problem…or so I thought.
I decided to use the bathroom before I left the café and as I was waiting in line, the manager approached me and said I didn’t leave enough pesos. What? I was sure I left enough, plus a good tip. The manager showed me the receipt and it displayed that I had ordered the most expensive coffee drink on the menu, a “double espresso, illy style”. Nope.
Now, in any other situation, I would have kindly explained the situation, kept my pocket book shut and the world would have kept turning. However, that’s not what happened. For some reason, even though I knew this was wrong, the pressure of having to explain the situation in Spanish, combined with the fact I was in line for the bathroom in front of two other people, caused me to quickly say, “Oh, lo siento,” whip out my wallet and pay an extra $1.60.
The entire way home I played the scene over in my head. Why the heck did I cough that up? Yes, tangibly it was only $1.60, but to me, it was much more than that. It was the fact that here, I feel humbled to the point that often times I’m scared to stick up for myself. I’ve been flirting with the line between wanting to be an impressive representative and being a wimpy, white-girl who’d rather throw money at a situation than actually sort it out. If you can’t tell by my tone, this isn’t the first incident of its kind.
What is it exactly that makes me feel so vulnerable? Sure, I don’t speak the language perfectly, but I still have a sense of self and what I deserve. So, what is so damn intimidating? The first part of this trip, I was constantly reminding myself that I was out of my element and that to learn anything would require constant correcting, reminding and adjusting from the people around me. But there’s a point in which you also need to remind yourself that you’re not ALWAYS wrong. Despite having the speaking skills of somebody half my age, I still have the same brain content as I did before I arrived here (now, even more). Yes, to learn a language does indeed require a grand amount of humility, but to use a language requires confidence, instincts, and enough pride to keep your pocket book closed.
I decided to use the bathroom before I left the café and as I was waiting in line, the manager approached me and said I didn’t leave enough pesos. What? I was sure I left enough, plus a good tip. The manager showed me the receipt and it displayed that I had ordered the most expensive coffee drink on the menu, a “double espresso, illy style”. Nope.
Now, in any other situation, I would have kindly explained the situation, kept my pocket book shut and the world would have kept turning. However, that’s not what happened. For some reason, even though I knew this was wrong, the pressure of having to explain the situation in Spanish, combined with the fact I was in line for the bathroom in front of two other people, caused me to quickly say, “Oh, lo siento,” whip out my wallet and pay an extra $1.60.
The entire way home I played the scene over in my head. Why the heck did I cough that up? Yes, tangibly it was only $1.60, but to me, it was much more than that. It was the fact that here, I feel humbled to the point that often times I’m scared to stick up for myself. I’ve been flirting with the line between wanting to be an impressive representative and being a wimpy, white-girl who’d rather throw money at a situation than actually sort it out. If you can’t tell by my tone, this isn’t the first incident of its kind.
What is it exactly that makes me feel so vulnerable? Sure, I don’t speak the language perfectly, but I still have a sense of self and what I deserve. So, what is so damn intimidating? The first part of this trip, I was constantly reminding myself that I was out of my element and that to learn anything would require constant correcting, reminding and adjusting from the people around me. But there’s a point in which you also need to remind yourself that you’re not ALWAYS wrong. Despite having the speaking skills of somebody half my age, I still have the same brain content as I did before I arrived here (now, even more). Yes, to learn a language does indeed require a grand amount of humility, but to use a language requires confidence, instincts, and enough pride to keep your pocket book closed.
Monday, March 8, 2010
I'm Ready
This morning, my bags are packed and sitting next to me. My bed is made and I have created the illusion for my host family that I’m actually a neat person. I’m hydrated with orange juice and water, and my 4inch burn from a motorcycle exhaust pipe is cleaned and bandaged. I have the numbers of three of my teachers, my host family, and the US Embassy. I have a play list donning the best beach/road trip music I know. I have a pocket full of pesos appropriately hidden away in my $15 designer rip off I got from the underground market. I have sunscreen, even though I’ve never been sun burnt in my life, I think it’s best not to challenge the Mexican Sun. I have my journal so I can write down all of my revelations (I’ve been having quite a few these days). AND I have three partners-in-crime who basically guarantee a great time no matter what happens.
I am ready for Acapulco.
Hasta luego, compadres!
I am ready for Acapulco.
Hasta luego, compadres!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Great Heights
I’m tall. I’ve been aware of this since 7th grade, when a basketball coach recruited me for the team despite my apparent lack of hand-eye coordination at tryouts. Even after I could only put two points on the board…the entire season, my coach still encouraged me to stay on the team because apparently my height inspired in him some uncanny faith in my potential (never to be realized on the court, mind you). And if that wasn’t enough, I never experienced a middle school slow dance in which my partner’s eyes were paired above my chest. Even today, I have witnessed my share of male expressions go from “tall and proud” to “nervous and emasculated” after I come down the stairs in my high heels. Alas, this is all just to describe my first point that I’m tall, and here in Mexico, I’m really tall.
However, it wasn’t until recently that I realized how blessed I am to be tall and how my height actually serves as a testimony to how fortunate I am. I’m currently reading a book titled, “Mexican Lives” by Judith Adler Hellman. In this particular excerpt, Hellman is speaking with a Mexican woman who sells lingerie and claims she sells it in all colors and sizes. When Hellman asks if she has any in her size, the vendora looks her over and laughs replying,
“You’re not ‘big,’ you’re tall. That’s different from being big. You’re tall because you’re well-nourished. That’s the difference between women here and norteamericanas or canadienses. We get to be fat because we go our whole life without eating proper food.”
(Hellman. Mexican Lives. Pg 84).
After reading this, you can bet I had an “elevated” point of view. Sincerely, as a person who basically grew up in the Natural Food Coop in Litchfield, I have always been surrounded by nutritious food. Every single day of my life I have had the option to include fresh fruits and vegetables in my diet. The same is true for my parents, and their parents as well. Thus, my family has had the opportunity to be tall. Up until this point, I have simply attributed my height to my genetic makeup. However, now, I see my height as more than a physical expresion. To me, my height is now a living example of how people can grow only when given the opportunity.
However, it wasn’t until recently that I realized how blessed I am to be tall and how my height actually serves as a testimony to how fortunate I am. I’m currently reading a book titled, “Mexican Lives” by Judith Adler Hellman. In this particular excerpt, Hellman is speaking with a Mexican woman who sells lingerie and claims she sells it in all colors and sizes. When Hellman asks if she has any in her size, the vendora looks her over and laughs replying,
“You’re not ‘big,’ you’re tall. That’s different from being big. You’re tall because you’re well-nourished. That’s the difference between women here and norteamericanas or canadienses. We get to be fat because we go our whole life without eating proper food.”
(Hellman. Mexican Lives. Pg 84).
After reading this, you can bet I had an “elevated” point of view. Sincerely, as a person who basically grew up in the Natural Food Coop in Litchfield, I have always been surrounded by nutritious food. Every single day of my life I have had the option to include fresh fruits and vegetables in my diet. The same is true for my parents, and their parents as well. Thus, my family has had the opportunity to be tall. Up until this point, I have simply attributed my height to my genetic makeup. However, now, I see my height as more than a physical expresion. To me, my height is now a living example of how people can grow only when given the opportunity.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Presently Redefining
Lately, when people have asked me about how my trip is going, I’ve found myself finding it difficult to really describe it. The thing is, to say it’s “going well” doesn’t suffice, and to say it’s “completely wonderful” puts a lace doily on something that is much more complex. So, how is my trip going you ask? Well, in one word, it’s profound; and it’s profound by the definition that it’s requiring great perception.
And I think this is what makes travel so essential. The awareness required when you are thrown (or volunteer yourself, or heck, even pay tuition for the experience rather) into a completely new surrounding is greatly increased. Yesterday I went to the city of Tepotzlan, a beautiful city nestled in the mountains about an hour from Cuernavaca. While I was there, I realized that I was completely in the present. I was feeling the cool breeze on my face, listening to the foreign language around me, smelling the different foods and looking at all the crafts and goods around me. Because everything was so new, I was so aware with my senses. Then, as I rode the bus home with the sun setting behind the mountains, I didn’t sink into a newspaper or listen to my iPod, but rather I opened the window and took in the scene. It was in that moment I realized the amazing things that can surface when you’re in the present, and in contrast, all the things you can miss when you’re sucked into a routine. And I couldn’t help but wonder: when you remove yourself from everything that defines you, what definition remains?
And I think this is what makes travel so essential. The awareness required when you are thrown (or volunteer yourself, or heck, even pay tuition for the experience rather) into a completely new surrounding is greatly increased. Yesterday I went to the city of Tepotzlan, a beautiful city nestled in the mountains about an hour from Cuernavaca. While I was there, I realized that I was completely in the present. I was feeling the cool breeze on my face, listening to the foreign language around me, smelling the different foods and looking at all the crafts and goods around me. Because everything was so new, I was so aware with my senses. Then, as I rode the bus home with the sun setting behind the mountains, I didn’t sink into a newspaper or listen to my iPod, but rather I opened the window and took in the scene. It was in that moment I realized the amazing things that can surface when you’re in the present, and in contrast, all the things you can miss when you’re sucked into a routine. And I couldn’t help but wonder: when you remove yourself from everything that defines you, what definition remains?
Sunday, February 28, 2010
The Golden People
There are Golden People in the world. Sometimes it’s hard to remember they exist because they are so inexplicably rare, but they’re there. I’ve met Golden People all over: in a classroom, on a park bench, in a small café, down the block, down the hall, down the street, even in books. I’ve sought out Golden People, and sometimes I’ve just stumbled upon them as I waited for the 16 in Minneapolis. But regardless of where or when I meet these Golden People, the point is after I meet them, they stick with me.
So who are these Golden People I’m talking about? They’re not fairies, legends, phantoms, or characters on a children’s show sponsored by PBS, but rather real people. In my view, Golden People are those in which you meet and they forever change your expectations for your standard of living. They change what you hold true for yourself, others, and life at large…forever (or at least until you meet the next Golden Person).
Here in Mexico, I am meeting Golden People. My standards for myself, others and life at large are morphing so quickly and in the most wonderful way. In fact, they’re morphing so quickly, I can’t even tell you exactly what is changing, I just know something’s in motion. However, I’m sure if you read closely, you’ll find some hints.
So, in the hopes that some people are reading my blogs, I have a question for you all. Out of both curiosity and in honor of these incredible people, who are some of your Golden People? How did you meet them and how have they stuck with you? And even if you don’t want to get all mushy in the blogosphere, maybe just give it some time for thought. After all, it never hurts to reflect on the people you’ve shared a piece of life withJ
So who are these Golden People I’m talking about? They’re not fairies, legends, phantoms, or characters on a children’s show sponsored by PBS, but rather real people. In my view, Golden People are those in which you meet and they forever change your expectations for your standard of living. They change what you hold true for yourself, others, and life at large…forever (or at least until you meet the next Golden Person).
Here in Mexico, I am meeting Golden People. My standards for myself, others and life at large are morphing so quickly and in the most wonderful way. In fact, they’re morphing so quickly, I can’t even tell you exactly what is changing, I just know something’s in motion. However, I’m sure if you read closely, you’ll find some hints.
So, in the hopes that some people are reading my blogs, I have a question for you all. Out of both curiosity and in honor of these incredible people, who are some of your Golden People? How did you meet them and how have they stuck with you? And even if you don’t want to get all mushy in the blogosphere, maybe just give it some time for thought. After all, it never hurts to reflect on the people you’ve shared a piece of life withJ
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Beauty and the False-Image-Perpetuating Beast
Recently, the publication Vanity Fair released its annual “New Hollywood” issue. The issue reined in quite a bit of controversy because it donned ten, lovely young actresses…ten, lovely all-white actresses. Not only did the cover overlook breakout actresses of color (such as Zoe Saldana or Gabourey Sidibe), but it was also enhanced (well, depending on your definition of enhancement) to make the white actresses appear “whiter”. On the cover, the women appear just short of porcelain and are depicted as the up-and-coming beauty of Hollywood. To me, Vanity Fair’s defense of “we’re sorry, but rich, famous people have busy schedules and it’s not our fault that this photo-shoot was only convenient for white actresses,” was as shallow as their choice for representation.
So, what does this have to do with Mexico? I have yet to see an advertisement here donning a dark-skinned woman, or man for that matter. In the advertisements here, and especially in communities of mostly dark-skinned people, I have noticed that the woman in the advertisements, for the most part, look European or like light-skinned Mexicans. I have yet to see an advertisement with a person who resembles somebody with indigenous blood. I’ve noticed this in the advertisements on my way to Lagunilla and I think about the little girls I work with. What is it like to see these images every day and how do they relate to them? Does it affect their self esteem? What do they see as beautiful in their society and are they included in that image? What would it be like to never see yourself in a position of what is glamorized to you as beautiful. I understand that this is not a new issue, but it’s sad to think how little progress has been made. Is the false idea of “the whiter the better” really that international? It’s like the Guns, Germs and Steel approach to media and advertising. I guess I just really hope that the beautiful, dark-skinned girls I know don’t give the awful Fanta soda ads next to the convenient store a second thought, and that their ideas of what beauty really is comes from somewhere beyond print.
So, what does this have to do with Mexico? I have yet to see an advertisement here donning a dark-skinned woman, or man for that matter. In the advertisements here, and especially in communities of mostly dark-skinned people, I have noticed that the woman in the advertisements, for the most part, look European or like light-skinned Mexicans. I have yet to see an advertisement with a person who resembles somebody with indigenous blood. I’ve noticed this in the advertisements on my way to Lagunilla and I think about the little girls I work with. What is it like to see these images every day and how do they relate to them? Does it affect their self esteem? What do they see as beautiful in their society and are they included in that image? What would it be like to never see yourself in a position of what is glamorized to you as beautiful. I understand that this is not a new issue, but it’s sad to think how little progress has been made. Is the false idea of “the whiter the better” really that international? It’s like the Guns, Germs and Steel approach to media and advertising. I guess I just really hope that the beautiful, dark-skinned girls I know don’t give the awful Fanta soda ads next to the convenient store a second thought, and that their ideas of what beauty really is comes from somewhere beyond print.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Hard Work and Dedication
As I ride the bus to and from Las Palmas to Lagunilla, I look out the window and take notice of my surroundings. As you enter Lagunilla, painted on the side of a small fence are the words (translated from Spanish of course): Hard work and Dedication. I think about what these words mean to the people who live there: people who are coming home after working twelve hours and have been riding the bus for four, people who have only known work their entire lives, becoming vendors as early as the age of four and families who fight to make ends meet so they can remain together under their small, tin, makeshift roof.
To me, in my absolutely humble, inexperienced opinion, these two words “hard work” and “dedication” seem a bit taunting. It’s just that, I have yet to meet a person from Lagunilla who needs to be reminded that their lives need “hard work” and “dedication”, because it’s obvious. So I wonder, who painted those words there and what did they really mean? What does “hard work” really even mean? I think about the vendors who board the bus and shout advertisements for the burned CDs or colorful key chains they carry. How can they really “work harder”. I doubt if they shout louder or with more enthusiasm, they’d sell more. And what about this dedication piece. Dedication to what? To their families, to their government, to their communities? I work with a teacher every Tuesday and Thursday who I have yet to see lose dedication to teaching, despite the fact she teaches over twelve different students any given day, attendance is always shifting and some of the kids are four years apart and at completely different levels. Yet, she is there everyday, she never loses her focus, and just when you think she’s being to stern, she flashes one of the warmest, most genuine smiles I’ve ever seen. I know that she does not need to be reminded of dedication. So what do these words really mean and why are they bannered in Lagunilla? Why do I not see these words in Las Palmas? Well, I guess they would clash with the golf course.
To me, in my absolutely humble, inexperienced opinion, these two words “hard work” and “dedication” seem a bit taunting. It’s just that, I have yet to meet a person from Lagunilla who needs to be reminded that their lives need “hard work” and “dedication”, because it’s obvious. So I wonder, who painted those words there and what did they really mean? What does “hard work” really even mean? I think about the vendors who board the bus and shout advertisements for the burned CDs or colorful key chains they carry. How can they really “work harder”. I doubt if they shout louder or with more enthusiasm, they’d sell more. And what about this dedication piece. Dedication to what? To their families, to their government, to their communities? I work with a teacher every Tuesday and Thursday who I have yet to see lose dedication to teaching, despite the fact she teaches over twelve different students any given day, attendance is always shifting and some of the kids are four years apart and at completely different levels. Yet, she is there everyday, she never loses her focus, and just when you think she’s being to stern, she flashes one of the warmest, most genuine smiles I’ve ever seen. I know that she does not need to be reminded of dedication. So what do these words really mean and why are they bannered in Lagunilla? Why do I not see these words in Las Palmas? Well, I guess they would clash with the golf course.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Go Tell It On The Mountain
Just short of three weeks ago, I arrived here in Cuernavaca to begin my journey to bilingualism. And, as with most journeys, you start by pursuing one thing and end up discovering many other things (and let’s face it, to say “things” is an understatement. Love, friendship, tolerance, spirituality, and essentially a richer life are just a few of the beautiful consequences of traveling, and the term ‘thing’ doesn’t do these results justice).
So, my point you ask? I’ve been here for three weeks with the goal of learning another language and I have already found so much more. On Monday, instead of class, my professor took a small group of us to witness a pilgrimage. West of Cuernavaca is the sacred site of Chalma, which is the second most visited pilgrimage site in Mexico (second to Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe). I witnessed people pouring over the mountains to come to this sacred site. Many people of all ages had been hiking for 4 or 5 days straight.
The spirits of the people I talked to were just shining through their smiles. It was a true feeling of a community movement towards something above themselves. I admired the camaraderie all around me as people laughed, talked and supported each other in all different ways. It was truly a beautiful thing to see. As we drove back through the narrow, winding path in the stunning mountains of Cuernavaca, my heart was filled with respect for both the breathtaking beauty of Cuernavaca and its inhabitants.
So, my point you ask? I’ve been here for three weeks with the goal of learning another language and I have already found so much more. On Monday, instead of class, my professor took a small group of us to witness a pilgrimage. West of Cuernavaca is the sacred site of Chalma, which is the second most visited pilgrimage site in Mexico (second to Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe). I witnessed people pouring over the mountains to come to this sacred site. Many people of all ages had been hiking for 4 or 5 days straight.
The spirits of the people I talked to were just shining through their smiles. It was a true feeling of a community movement towards something above themselves. I admired the camaraderie all around me as people laughed, talked and supported each other in all different ways. It was truly a beautiful thing to see. As we drove back through the narrow, winding path in the stunning mountains of Cuernavaca, my heart was filled with respect for both the breathtaking beauty of Cuernavaca and its inhabitants.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Beyond Words...
In life, we all encounter things that, for a brief moment, catch our breath because they transcend what we thought were the limits of human capacity. Well I had exactly one of these moments on Friday night when I went to a flamenco performance at the Jardin Borda in the center of Cuernavaca. Supported by two classical guitars, a violin, two body percussionists and an amazing vocalist, I watched four flamenco dancers take the stage and present one of the most impassioned performances I’ve ever seen. The whole entire show was so rhythmically infused with pulsating vocals, rhythmic hand clapping (palmas) and feet stomping (zapateado) and of course, dancing.
I was sitting in a beautiful garden in a stadium that was across a small pond from the stage. The water glimmered and the stars were gleaming in the sky (which is a small, but important side note because it’s important to say that I have yet to experience light pollution here. In contrast to the orange night sky of Minneapolis, the stars here beam every night). Suddenly, the opening note of the vocalist pierced through the crowd. And to touch on this, with the vocalists in this type of performance, the goal is not to have control of their vocals, it’s in fact the opposite--the art of letting go. The lead vocalists threw his head back, opened his arms and let the sound pour out directly from his soul. As the guitarists began to pluck their guitars in the most alluring way, a beautiful woman stepped on stage with a Medusa-like stare that could stop any living thing in its tracks.
With hands twisting seamlessly, she began to set the story that she was going to tell. As she slowly began to lock into a rhythm with her feet, the percussionists joined in. I noticed that my hands were already clenched to the end of my chair because I knew this was just the beginning. And as much as I would like to describe what came next, the truth is, I really can’t because it left me speechless. The passion and power exuding from that stage was something I had never seen before and I was almost brought to tears. To me, it was the living example of what dance is to me in its truest form: a story that is so beautiful, so powerful, so beyond words, that it can only be told through movement.
I was sitting in a beautiful garden in a stadium that was across a small pond from the stage. The water glimmered and the stars were gleaming in the sky (which is a small, but important side note because it’s important to say that I have yet to experience light pollution here. In contrast to the orange night sky of Minneapolis, the stars here beam every night). Suddenly, the opening note of the vocalist pierced through the crowd. And to touch on this, with the vocalists in this type of performance, the goal is not to have control of their vocals, it’s in fact the opposite--the art of letting go. The lead vocalists threw his head back, opened his arms and let the sound pour out directly from his soul. As the guitarists began to pluck their guitars in the most alluring way, a beautiful woman stepped on stage with a Medusa-like stare that could stop any living thing in its tracks.
With hands twisting seamlessly, she began to set the story that she was going to tell. As she slowly began to lock into a rhythm with her feet, the percussionists joined in. I noticed that my hands were already clenched to the end of my chair because I knew this was just the beginning. And as much as I would like to describe what came next, the truth is, I really can’t because it left me speechless. The passion and power exuding from that stage was something I had never seen before and I was almost brought to tears. To me, it was the living example of what dance is to me in its truest form: a story that is so beautiful, so powerful, so beyond words, that it can only be told through movement.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Day I Fell in Love with Mexico
Today was extraordinary. Let me try to explain…
Today after class, I left to work at my service learning site named VAMOS (a small non profit nestled on the outskirts of Cuernavaca. It’s an incredible place that holds many functions with the main services consisting of classrooms, and classes that teach local woman marketable skills…stay tuned, I will write more about this).
I left with my two program compadres Maggie and Danny. It was our first time going to our service learning site by ourselves and taking the RUTA (the public transportation here). While I’m sure we were secretly a little nervous we headed out, confident that our intuition would lead us and we would be just fine. As we rode the bus, I sat behind a little boy playing with a chunk of play-doh. My limited knowledge of Spanish words for food and animals allowed me to actually play with this little boy and I was amazed at how much you can connect with people with facial expressions alone. As he left, I saw his mother whisper in the little boy’s ear as he turned around and said (in the most adorable voice a four-year-old could have), “have a good day.” This little moment alone could’ve made my day.
Well…our intuition led us over an hour in the wrong direction. The bus driver pulled over next to a small stand on a quiet road and I turned around only to realize we were the only ones left on the bus and instead of being at our desired location, we were miles and miles away in a place we hadn’t even heard of. Finally, the bus driver turned around and said in spanish, “So, where are you trying to go?”
Despite our frustration and disappointment, we began talking to the bus driver and found that his name was Pedro and he loved his job. We talked about his family and friends in the U.S. and to our surprise, and parched delight, he ended up buying us three, ice-cold beers from the nearby stand. Eventually, we came to the topic of how much Maggie and I have loved that people can dance here (and we’re not talking, the typical “lean against your backside and bob” type dancing, we’re talking real, partnered, feel the rhythm and respect your partner type dancing). Turns out, Pedro is an excellent dancer and lover of salsa as he kindly began to show and teach us some of his moves.
So, there we were, three completely lost students having a great time drinking cold Victorias and salsa dancing with Pedro the bus driver…all the while speaking a language I just really began to learn two weeks ago. Eventually, it was time for Pedro to return to the zocalo in Cuernavaca which would allow us to get back to our homes. As we got off at our final destination, we exchanged numbers with Pedro, just in case we ever find ourselves lost on another ruta.
I had seen so much of the city in the last two hours, listening to the people around me and looking at the small simple shops that line the city streets, and I couldn’t ignore a certain feeling in my chest that stopped me and caught my breath. I know this type of feeling and it is a rare and beautiful thing. It’s like when you are dating someone, and you know they’re wonderful and you know you really care about them, but you simply needed the light to hit them just right to realize that you are in fact in love.
Well, in the course of three hours, riding the number 5 ruta, I realized I was in love.
Today after class, I left to work at my service learning site named VAMOS (a small non profit nestled on the outskirts of Cuernavaca. It’s an incredible place that holds many functions with the main services consisting of classrooms, and classes that teach local woman marketable skills…stay tuned, I will write more about this).
I left with my two program compadres Maggie and Danny. It was our first time going to our service learning site by ourselves and taking the RUTA (the public transportation here). While I’m sure we were secretly a little nervous we headed out, confident that our intuition would lead us and we would be just fine. As we rode the bus, I sat behind a little boy playing with a chunk of play-doh. My limited knowledge of Spanish words for food and animals allowed me to actually play with this little boy and I was amazed at how much you can connect with people with facial expressions alone. As he left, I saw his mother whisper in the little boy’s ear as he turned around and said (in the most adorable voice a four-year-old could have), “have a good day.” This little moment alone could’ve made my day.
Well…our intuition led us over an hour in the wrong direction. The bus driver pulled over next to a small stand on a quiet road and I turned around only to realize we were the only ones left on the bus and instead of being at our desired location, we were miles and miles away in a place we hadn’t even heard of. Finally, the bus driver turned around and said in spanish, “So, where are you trying to go?”
Despite our frustration and disappointment, we began talking to the bus driver and found that his name was Pedro and he loved his job. We talked about his family and friends in the U.S. and to our surprise, and parched delight, he ended up buying us three, ice-cold beers from the nearby stand. Eventually, we came to the topic of how much Maggie and I have loved that people can dance here (and we’re not talking, the typical “lean against your backside and bob” type dancing, we’re talking real, partnered, feel the rhythm and respect your partner type dancing). Turns out, Pedro is an excellent dancer and lover of salsa as he kindly began to show and teach us some of his moves.
So, there we were, three completely lost students having a great time drinking cold Victorias and salsa dancing with Pedro the bus driver…all the while speaking a language I just really began to learn two weeks ago. Eventually, it was time for Pedro to return to the zocalo in Cuernavaca which would allow us to get back to our homes. As we got off at our final destination, we exchanged numbers with Pedro, just in case we ever find ourselves lost on another ruta.
I had seen so much of the city in the last two hours, listening to the people around me and looking at the small simple shops that line the city streets, and I couldn’t ignore a certain feeling in my chest that stopped me and caught my breath. I know this type of feeling and it is a rare and beautiful thing. It’s like when you are dating someone, and you know they’re wonderful and you know you really care about them, but you simply needed the light to hit them just right to realize that you are in fact in love.
Well, in the course of three hours, riding the number 5 ruta, I realized I was in love.
Another Day, Another Dollar...or 5000 Dollars
It’s official, from now on bartering is my first choice of currency. Since I’ve been here in Mexico, I have learned more and more about the inflation of the peso. Because I can’t really sum up the whirlwind of politics and economic madness behind it all in one little blog, let’s just say that at one point in time if you lived in Mexico and took out a $400,000 loan, you could end up owing over a million dollars in less than 17 months. Or, on the other end, if you invested $24,000 at just the right time and under the right terms, you could quite possibly be rubbing shoulders with Bill Gates today like one 80-something year old woman here in Mexico.
My point is, it is madness. In talking with a new friend about the inflation that occurred during the term of presidante Salinas, he refers to the feeling as, “being the poorest millionaire” as a peso that is now currently is worth $5 was at one point worth $5000. Throughout the economic past of Mexico, zeros on the peso come and go like the latest fashion trend and it has profound effects on the everyday lives of the people. And here I am complaining about Wells Fargo ripping me off on the exchange rate.
My last blog I talked a little big about the construction of time, and the construction of money is even crazier. From what I have learned in the last two weeks, it’s the most popular kind of magic.
My point is, it is madness. In talking with a new friend about the inflation that occurred during the term of presidante Salinas, he refers to the feeling as, “being the poorest millionaire” as a peso that is now currently is worth $5 was at one point worth $5000. Throughout the economic past of Mexico, zeros on the peso come and go like the latest fashion trend and it has profound effects on the everyday lives of the people. And here I am complaining about Wells Fargo ripping me off on the exchange rate.
My last blog I talked a little big about the construction of time, and the construction of money is even crazier. From what I have learned in the last two weeks, it’s the most popular kind of magic.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Bottle It Up
Today, I went on a walking tour to downtown Cuernavaca. One of the places we stopped at was a beautiful, 16th century Franciscan cathedral. As I sat in a pew next to a huge fountain of holy water, I watched people come to the fountain and dip their hands in the holy water to bless themselves. People would use the water in many different ways: I saw a husband and wife bless each other, then bless their newborn baby. I saw a little girl dip her hands in the water and use it to tame her unruly bangs sticking out of her pigtails. I saw people quickly pass by, and I saw people stand in silence, with their hands in the water for over 10 minutes, deep in prayer. However, the most interesting thing I observed came in the form of a man coming to the holy water, filling a plastic soda bottle and leaving with his own, now portable, supply of holy water. And as silly as this seemed at first, the longer I sat in the cathedral, under towering arches and half-faded frescos, I began to find the man’s actions quite beautiful. I found it beautiful that this man had enough faith in something to bottle it up and keep it with him for a time of need. It made me wonder about faith and what my holy water is. And while I haven’t come up with a clear answer yet, you can bet I will be paying attention to what I bottle up, and store away for times of need.
More Than Words
I think it’s amazing how people communicate without words. Whether or not you’re a believer in “energy” or “auras,” it’s impossible to deny that there are moments when you can feel the personality of someone without even sharing one word with them. This is how I felt when I first arrived at the VAMOS program. I walked into a classroom full of kids who all spoke Spanish. And while at first our conversations couldn’t really progress beyond, “hola, como estas?” I could still share laughs and sarcasm with the student that was sitting next to me. Now, I know people are very complex and the moment you think you have someone “figured out”, they usually prove you wrong. But, I have already met some people here (young and old) that, despite a language gap, I’ve caught a glimpse of their spirit and that it’s not so much what we say but how we say it. I know this is a bit cliché and not the most profound discovery, but, the other day I sat next to a student at VAMOS named Fernando and we really couldn’t understand each other’s words. However, I couldn’t deny the personality shining through his smile and whenever I get discouraged in my efforts to learn Spanish, I remember this and feel comforted in the fact that words are often times just supplementary to communication.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
The Human Hand Turns the Clock
Last week, I went on a tour of Xochicalco, a premier archaeological site in the western part of Morelos. It was fascinating to have a glimpse into a world that I had never heard of and couldn’t even imagine living in. The most fascinating aspect of the tour I thought was all of the different gods of the people of Mesoamerica in that time (a close second was our tour guide and one of my professors, Charlie Goff, aka. The Human Encyclopedia).
The ancient people of Xochicalco had gods for everything planets, animals, plants, human conditions, etc. However, what stuck in my head after the tour was the idea that these ancient peoples had gods for time. Days, weeks, months, years, you name it, there was a god for it. These gods would correspond with calendars that were constantly being modified. Lets say we’re friends living in ancient Mesoamerica, happily making sacrifices to the God of Saturday once a week and merrily going about our business. Then, the priests and leaders of the city decide that there was a mistake made in the current calendar and the whole city as been living one day behind what needs to be aligned with the gods. Here you are making sacrifices to the God of Saturday for the last month, when REALLY you should have been making sacrifices to the God of Sunday. And you better hope that the God of Sunday hasn’t faded away due to starvation, because, well, we all saw what happened to Teotihuacan!
It was all very interesting, but it made me wonder about the whole concept of Time. We create it, abide by it, and before we know it, we’re controlled by it (raise your hand if you‘ve said, “I can‘t, I don‘t have time”). In a way, we design our own demise. As I was sitting on the edge of a pyramid, overlooking the beautiful mountains of western Morelos, I couldn’t help but wonder how something so unnatural became natural. Even in 700 A.D., people were creating their own phantoms…everyday of the “week”.
Check back soon for pictures!
The ancient people of Xochicalco had gods for everything planets, animals, plants, human conditions, etc. However, what stuck in my head after the tour was the idea that these ancient peoples had gods for time. Days, weeks, months, years, you name it, there was a god for it. These gods would correspond with calendars that were constantly being modified. Lets say we’re friends living in ancient Mesoamerica, happily making sacrifices to the God of Saturday once a week and merrily going about our business. Then, the priests and leaders of the city decide that there was a mistake made in the current calendar and the whole city as been living one day behind what needs to be aligned with the gods. Here you are making sacrifices to the God of Saturday for the last month, when REALLY you should have been making sacrifices to the God of Sunday. And you better hope that the God of Sunday hasn’t faded away due to starvation, because, well, we all saw what happened to Teotihuacan!
It was all very interesting, but it made me wonder about the whole concept of Time. We create it, abide by it, and before we know it, we’re controlled by it (raise your hand if you‘ve said, “I can‘t, I don‘t have time”). In a way, we design our own demise. As I was sitting on the edge of a pyramid, overlooking the beautiful mountains of western Morelos, I couldn’t help but wonder how something so unnatural became natural. Even in 700 A.D., people were creating their own phantoms…everyday of the “week”.
Check back soon for pictures!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I Don't Believe In Luck, But I'm Still Very Lucky
Today was an incredible lesson in luck. Which, I guess I need to clarify how I view ‘luck’ before I explain. I’m not sure if the idea of luck truly exists in the mind of an optimist because why would one be so surprised when things work out for the best? I guess what I’m saying is, to me, incidents of luck are simply reminders that the world is NOT out to get you.
So, with that small philosophy lesson under our belts, today I was very lucky. Today, I was moved down a level in Spanish. Am I still swimming in the enormous oceana de espanol? Yes, and I will be for the next three months. However, I am no longer drowning and my brain is no longer spontaneously combusting at 9:05 every morning Monday- Friday (yes, I know, I’m dramatic). This is a miracle.
Now, over the last three days all I have done is eat, sleep and breathe Spanish vocabulary and grammar. However, just as my peripheral vision began to degrade, I was reminded that tomorrow will be my first day at VAMOS, a public school and my future service-learning site. Then, I attended our first class on current events here in Mexico. It was so interesting, and at the end of it all I had a thought: “Learning the language here is just part of a bigger picture.” And it was at this moment I discovered a hidden reservoir of motivation.
So, with that small philosophy lesson under our belts, today I was very lucky. Today, I was moved down a level in Spanish. Am I still swimming in the enormous oceana de espanol? Yes, and I will be for the next three months. However, I am no longer drowning and my brain is no longer spontaneously combusting at 9:05 every morning Monday- Friday (yes, I know, I’m dramatic). This is a miracle.
Now, over the last three days all I have done is eat, sleep and breathe Spanish vocabulary and grammar. However, just as my peripheral vision began to degrade, I was reminded that tomorrow will be my first day at VAMOS, a public school and my future service-learning site. Then, I attended our first class on current events here in Mexico. It was so interesting, and at the end of it all I had a thought: “Learning the language here is just part of a bigger picture.” And it was at this moment I discovered a hidden reservoir of motivation.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Day My Brain Broke
Today, my brain broke. Truly, I think there is still gooey pieces in the classroom at Cemanahuac. Learning a language is a wonderful challenge, being in a different country is an exhilarating experience, being in a Spanish class about 3 years more advanced then yourself…hard as hell. So, let’s just say the morning was rough.
However, around 4:00 pm, the clouds broke and a shimmer of hope came gleaming down in the form of a man named Tim, aka Teapot. Tim is guy who graduated from the U of M about 3 years ago and came to Cemanhuac to at first feel the exact way I did: completely lost, scared of failure and sun burnt. However, back to the “hope” part, Tim made it. NO, he didn’t just make it, he now returns every year to work with the program VAMOS (the program I’ll start working with on Thursday). Basically, he not only got me, he reassured me, and he decided to break the rules and speak English to me. Bless his soul.
For tomorrow, esta chica tiene tres diccionarios para ayudar:)
However, around 4:00 pm, the clouds broke and a shimmer of hope came gleaming down in the form of a man named Tim, aka Teapot. Tim is guy who graduated from the U of M about 3 years ago and came to Cemanhuac to at first feel the exact way I did: completely lost, scared of failure and sun burnt. However, back to the “hope” part, Tim made it. NO, he didn’t just make it, he now returns every year to work with the program VAMOS (the program I’ll start working with on Thursday). Basically, he not only got me, he reassured me, and he decided to break the rules and speak English to me. Bless his soul.
For tomorrow, esta chica tiene tres diccionarios para ayudar:)
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Diving In
Today was orientation at Cemanahuac Learning Community in Cuernavaca. The motto here is: “nadar en Espanol” or “swim in Spanish”. Well, if that is the case, I have a feeling I will be drowning on dry land for a bit. Many times I hear something to the tune of: “Alkdjfsoai sometimes alkdjfalj.” Or “When adifudo you dafoisiuhen done.” Let’s just say I have perfected the smile and nod as a key survival technique to get through conversation.
However, whining aside, this is going be exactly what I need to finally learn Spanish. No, correction, learn and use Spanish. You truly are immersed here, but luckily there is a lot of support from the people around you. It is the perfect learning environment.
Actually, it’s the perfect environment all together. Cuernavaca is beautiful. La clima es perfecto! It truly looks and feels like the City of Eternal Spring. Today I walked to the city square downtown in a skirt and t-shirt without sunscreen, and came back unburnt and mildly sweaty. It was strange writing the date at my orientation. To write the word ‘January’ next to a palm tree seems contrasting.
However, whining aside, this is going be exactly what I need to finally learn Spanish. No, correction, learn and use Spanish. You truly are immersed here, but luckily there is a lot of support from the people around you. It is the perfect learning environment.
Actually, it’s the perfect environment all together. Cuernavaca is beautiful. La clima es perfecto! It truly looks and feels like the City of Eternal Spring. Today I walked to the city square downtown in a skirt and t-shirt without sunscreen, and came back unburnt and mildly sweaty. It was strange writing the date at my orientation. To write the word ‘January’ next to a palm tree seems contrasting.
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