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
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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.
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