Adios

The Last Entry

A few weekends ago I attended a birthday party for Elsa's mother in Oaxaca Centro. It was, for the most part, a very enjoyable time – not all that different from an American birthday party, but with some interesting cultural quirks. The most notable such quirk was the group’s fondness for “Benevolent Inquisitions.” I would normally jump at the opportunity to embrace an aspect of another person’s culture. The problem was, in this case, the “benevolent inquisition” would be performed on me.

It all began when Elsa’s uncle asked me if Americans like to dance. “Not as much as Mexicans,” I responded, “but some do.” “Do you?” he asked. “Yep,” I said, offering my standard wanna-dance reply: “about as much as I like a trip to the dentist.” He, however, would not take stale wit for an answer. Neither would the forty other Mexican relatives sitting beside him. They had found their monkey for the night.

I tried to explain to them that I was willing to perform for them. I could tell jokes, I could tell a story, sing a tune or two, whatever. None of those would do. Apparently any suggestion that didn’t significantly moisten my khaki pants was out. Finally, I told them that the only ‘dance’ I knew was the moonwalk – which I demonstrated – but that only lasts like ten seconds. They then told me that it didn’t matter if I knew a specific dance, just dance to the rhythm of…the room. At that point there was no music in the room. Was I supposed to imagine a rhythm? Use my heartbeat as a metronome? At least then I’d escape through death.

Eventually they found music for me to dance to, but this didn’t help much. It just eliminated an excuse. Since the song they put on was a salsa type number, I danced in the ‘Slow Electrocution’ style. There was a degree of forethought in this selection: if it had been more of a mariachi sound, I would’ve surely gone with Slower Electrocution.

My audience, however, did not appreciate my forethought. They thought I was a first grader drowning in the deep end of the pool. They were right. Unfortunately, the unmarried 40-year-old woman they chose to save me couldn’t do much. We could do The Sway just fine, but any time we tried to venture beyond that I’d start stepping on her shoes. Which inhibited further growth.

Fortunately we only danced for about ten more minutes. By then, even Elsa’s burly, borracho uncle was willing to relent. Twenty minutes of spastic gringo entertainment was sufficient.

In the end, the inquisition was stressful and embarrassing, but benevolent. They knew I wasn’t a fan of dancing, but knew I’d be able to get over it and have a sense of humor about it. If twenty minutes of spastic gringo entertainment made them happy, I’m glad I obliged.

Monte Alban

The Way There












































Climbing
















At the Top
















The Ruins
















The Race
















The Group Shot
















The Best One

La Familia -- Rafael

Rafael (early 30s as well) is probably less ‘complicated’ than Elsa or Jonathan. Because he’s been awesome all the time since day one. Like Camilla, he exudes this aura of perpetual, genuine happiness. Unlike Camilla, he’s had life experiences that add significant depth to this happiness.

For starters, he never knew his father. And his mother, who worked three jobs to support the family, died when he was 12. The guardians he had from there were mostly his friends. Friends who arranged for him to go to the morgue and identify another friend’s (fake) dead body, friends who introduced him to crack cocaine. He managed to avoid jail, unlike many of his friends, but stayed in a pretty low place all through his teens.

The two main things that lifted him out of these depths were Elsa and Jesus. He and Elsa got married at 19 and 20. He and Jesus met at roughly the same time. Both gave him strength, direction, purpose. Both helped him turn his life around.

Nevertheless, he continued to face challenges. He had to find work, he had to support a family – and do both in a place that wasn’t very hospitable towards either. People always call Oaxaca tranquilo. It is, for the most part, a term of endearment: free of the crime and bustle of a place like Mexico City. It’s tranquil for a reason, though: there aren’t very many jobs. And there is a good deal of poverty. For the first six years Rafael and Elsa were married, he, she, and the three young kids lived in two rooms of Elsa’s mother’s house. He tried to find jobs that would utilize his considerable artistic skills, but the only things that were really available were scattered construction jobs. So he took those. They weren’t much, but they allowed he and Elsa to buy their own house in Esquipulas.

The immediate problem there, however, was it was less a house than a plot of overrun grass with a crooked canopy roof in the middle. So for the first few weeks they were there the family slept huddled under the roof, individual blankets on individual patches of grass. A bathroom obviously didn’t come with the deed, so they used the one that Niños Unidos had across the street until they could build their own.

Little by little, though, they built up the house. Four metal walls made a kitchen; a few granite slabs made a kitchen floor. They gradually brought over furniture from their old rooms; local relatives pitched it the rest. A few months in, they basically had everything they do now: a kitchen, a bathroom, two curtain-divided bedrooms, a den with a TV and DVD player, and a garage for storage. Certainly a respectable house.

Not wholly satisfying for Rafael, though. I find warm bucket baths refreshing, but as he has said, there’s something to be said about indoor plumbing. Being able to knock out your kitchen wall with three swings of a hammer is convenient when you’re moving furniture, but some people yearn for a more sturdy foundation. Unfortunately, as of now, Rafael and his family don’t have that foundation. Morally and emotionally they certainly do, but otherwise they pretty much live from paycheck to paycheck. Which, given the job-to-job nature of Rafael’s recent work -- painting company logos on the sides of buildings -- doesn’t offer a lot of stability. Or many opportunities for creativity. There are virtually no non-school books in the house; Rafael used to buy paints for him and the kids, but recently they’ve become too expensive.

The thing, that some of you may have guessed, that this is all leading up to is illegal immigration. He is still mulling over the decision, but for two years in the near future, Rafael will probably be an illegal immigrant. He will wait on a corner, hop in a truck, and become one of the millions of Mexicans illegally crossing the border. Try as Sean Hannity and his Minutemen might, Rafael probably will slip through. His water and breadsticks probably will end up at one of our tables.

I’m pretty sure this brings up two questions. (1) Financially, does he really need to come to the US? (2) Since when did being a nice person permit you to break the law?

The second question first: Clearly the border should be secure. Drugs could get through, terrorists could get through, a free-for-all is not a good idea. Having millions of people use social services without paying taxes or being accounted for is also not a good idea – and is probably, in the long run, a far bigger problem. So, in short, it shouldn’t be easy for Rafael to break the law, and he shouldn’t break it to begin with.

That doesn’t mean, however, that he should be demonized for doing so. He poses no threat to anyone, he’s trying to provide for his family, he’s coming back after two years, and I don’t recall a particularly large segment of the U.S. population being composed of unemployed Caucasian busboys.

As to whether he really needs to come to the US (what about the DVD player? what about the DVD player?), the answer is probably no. The DVD player is misleading because it’s a pirated DVD player – virtually the only affordable kind in Oaxaca – but he and his family could certainly get by. He doesn’t know what his next job will be, but he could get something and they could get by.

The point is, though, he doesn’t want to “get by.” He wants more for his family. He wants to be able to buy books or a paint set. He wants a greater sense of accomplishment at the end of the month than “I held our heads above water.” And the fact is, two years of US wages could help him realize that dream. When he has a job, he works seven days a week, but the wages here really are low. There is not much money to go around. Whereas everyone who’s spent a year or two in the US has said, there’s a lot of money to go around there.

I mentioned the Bush Temporary Worker program to Rafael and he was extremely interested. Obviously there are a lot of advantages to going legally: greater privileges within the US, no fear of deportation, no fear of retribution, not actually breaking the law. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to find any actual applications for the program online. The only thing that has consistently shown up is the transcript of Bush’s speech about the Temporary Worker program. So, I assume, as of now, it’s not an actual, functioning program. The other option Rafael brought up was applying through the Mexican government. He said, however, that this is not option because the application process is, like the Mexican government, extremely slow, extremely expensive, and corrupt.

Thus, when it boils down to it, unless he or I find a more concrete Temporary Worker plan, Rafael will illegally cross the border in the near future. He won’t want to leave his family, he won’t want to break the law, but that’s what he will do.

A Word on Corporal Punishment

I had originally included this in the Elsa section, but took it out because it didn't define her character. It was a significant moment for me, and thus I'm including it, but it isn't central to who Elsa is.

One morning, at breakfast, the second week I was there, the family was talking about discipline policy in Oaxaca primary and secondary schools. Elsa said they permit corporal punishment. This surprised me. A minute later she took out a small, thin belt and started spanking Camilla at the kitchen table. This surprised me a good deal more. The second time she hit wasn’t as shocking, but it was scary to watch Jonathan go into the other room – where you could hear the spanking.

I certainly disagree with this type of punishment, but I wouldn’t call it abusive. For a number of reasons: the hitting isn’t that often, that long, or that hard. And it’s usually the result of lying or some insubordination. And the kids are remarkably well-adjusted despite/because of it. Thus, I don’t think you can condemn her for it.

That didn't make it any less unsettling when it happened.

La Familia -- Elsa

Elsa (still early 30s) is as complicated as her son. If not more so. When I first met her, she seemed distant. When I interacted with her a little more, she exhibited this kind of gruff, unpleasant agitation.

When I interacted with a little more, though, I saw further layers -- that she could be caring, that she could be considerate, that she could even be light-hearted. Each night, for example, during the family’s two-hour bull sessions at the kitchen table -- the best part of the trip for me – she plays practical jokes. One time she told me the dinner was not beef, but horse meat, and became “furious” over the lack of respect I had for Mexican culture. Another time she played off my impression that she was/is a little crazy, warning me of the ancient spirits roaming the streets and the wrinkled, skinless cat lurking behind my window. So, she’s amusing. She’s also easily amused. She loved my extended Donald Duck impression, my two-second Johnny Bravo one, my interaction with her extended family, the fact that I (facetiously) tore her cooking to shreds, and that fact that I’ve consistently integrated Mexican slang into my vocabulary (“nell, guey” – roughly, “nuthin, homes.”)

La Familia -- Jonathan

Jonathan (13) is small for his age, but he’s also remarkably mature. He helps Rafael with the yard chores, he helps other kids in class, and can generally diffuse a tense situation with his well-developed sense of humor. So basically, the perfect kid without the stain of being “the perfect kid.”



































































Elsa (early 30s) is the head of the household. She tries to be…Wait, lemme go back to Jonathan for a second. I wrote that description of him awhile ago – and still for the most part believe it – but for thoroughness’ sake I should probably add something. He stole all my money. He went into my room, searched through my bag, and stole everything. (Because I had no ATM card, that meant more than $200 worth.) With this money, he bought lots of Cheetos. And Lemon Fanta. The rest he deposited in this Raggedy Andy-ish doll in the kitchen. When Elsa, his mother, asked where he got the money for all those high-carb snacks, he said he found it, miraculously, in a loose stitch in the doll. Elsa clearly wasn’t buying that. Shortly thereafter, Jonathan confessed.

Shortly after that, he confessed again, to me, in an incredibly awkward exchange.
Me, amicably: “¿Qué pasa, Jona? ¿Qué onda?” (What’s up, Jona? How’s it going?)
Him: [Silence]
Me, confused: “¿Qué occurió? ¿Alguien o algo te molesta?” (What happened? Someone or something bothering you?)
Him, staring into the ground: “Acá son los 2,000 pesos yo robé de su maleta. Lo siento. Yo debo ir.” (Here are the 2,000 pesos I robbed from your suitcase. I am sorry. I should go).
Me, alone: [Silence]

It took me a while to get over that incident. I understood the temptation – and the misguided Robin Hood rationalization – but that didn’t make it any less of a betrayal. I guess when something’s “perfect,” that means there’s something wrong, but I don’t like to be that cynical. So, for a while, there was a rift.

Eventually, though, the rift lessened. And then disappeared. And we’re brothers once again.

He’s still to the closest to a “younger brother” I’ve ever had. We beat each other up all the time. We brag about our rolodex full of girlfriends. I’m sure if there were towels and undersized lockers available, we’d rat tail bond as well.

He’s said he’s not going to miss me: “To be free of the jabbering monkey -- what a relief!” We both know that’s a front. We’ll do our best to stay all pseudo-macho as long as we can, but each of us knows the last day is going to be rough.

La Familia -- Camilla

Camilla (9) is la niña de risas y sonrisas (the girl of laughs and smiles). Anytime I’m feeling down about the project or the lack of efficiency in the town in general, her constant, genuine happiness lifts me up.

La Familia -- Moises

Moises (7) is best explained through pictures. In them, he’s energetic, adorable, and a little offbeat – like in life.

Personas Locas en Esquipulas (Crazy People in Esquipulas)

A good number of people on the meal rotation are timid. Whether it’s because I’m a foreigner, a white foreigner, a white foreigner from the US, or they are naturally shy, it does take awhile for us to talk. With one family it took particularly long. I couldn’t get them to say anything more than a few syllables. Until I asked them what movies they liked: “Oh, we liked movies before.” Huh? “Yes, we liked movies before.” Before? Before what? “Before we found out that they were evil. That they were curses against the Bible. Many people in Oaxaca watch them, but they really shouldn’t be seen.”













Satan's Minions












Certain other people on the meal rotation aren’t timid at all. I’ll get to some of them in a second, but first, I want to describe Rafael (my host dad)’s religious beliefs as a counterpoint to the movies-are-evil people. He believes in the Bible more or less literally – and thus finds evolution and homosexuality suspect. Unlike certain other ‘evangelicals,’ though, he doesn’t proselytize, he doesn’t judge, and he’s willing to listen to others’ opinions and change his opinion given sufficient evidence.

He even has a sense of humor about the subject. Me, one Sunday: “Hey, you off to Church?” Him: “Yes, off to the altar of our kitchen table. For the final comida of the week. I’m a little afraid Moises will betray me.” Me, weeks before my bout with the chicken: “How long do you keep the roosters for?” Him: “What do you mean?” Me: “I mean, they can’t lay eggs, so how long do you keep them before killing them?” Him: “We don’t kill the roosters. They’re there to keep us company and for decoration. The Bible says killing’s wrong, and that’s the end of it.” (In other words, he knew I was skeptical of his literal interpretation of the Bible, so he took a more extreme position than his own and had fun with it).

OK, enough rational thought. Back to the locas. Like the Generalísima de Cultura. Ten minutes into the meal she began this conversation: “Do you like Oaxacan culture?” Sure, from what I’ve seen I’ve enjoyed it. So you want to come with me into Zocalo this Saturday and visit various cultural sites. Oh. Um, I’m not sure. I’d have to check with my supervisor. Oh, so you can come! I’m delighted! Oh. I’d want to go if I can, but I’d have to check with my… Saturday afternoon then. It’s a date!

Note: I never ended up making the trip. Not because my supervisor wouldn’t approve, but because the woman, Generalísima she may have been, was still from Oaxaca and forgot the date.


The beginning of every meal on the meal rotation is basically the same. What’s your name, where are you from, how many brothers and sisters do you have, etc. This one was no different. Until the sixth sentence. “Hola, ¿Cómo estás? Estás bien? Que bueno. ¿De dónde eres? ¿De Nueva York?, que bueno. Entonces, ¿por qué la gente en tu país le gusta matar la gente en mi país por deportivo?” For non-Spanish speakers, the sixth sentence translates to “Then why do the people in your country like to kill the people in my country for sport?”

Literally, six sentences in, as we’re walking from my street to hers, she comes out with that lively conversation starter. No entiendo todo; what do you mean? I mean why do you people insist on hating people? And killing them whenever you feel like it? Um, we don’t. That’s not what I heard. Oh, well there’s definitely prejudice under the surface, and people are concerned about the rapidly increasing number of people receiving government services without paying for… That’s not what I heard. You seem nice, but I think most of you people are full of hate.

I kind of steered away from the topic after that. She was too far gone. I was able to recognize something significant, though. Not all Mexicans are amables (friendly); not all Oaxacans exude compassion. Every country, I suppose, has their Pat Buchanan and their Michael Savage. Everyone has racists.

And it is racism. ‘Cultural sensitivity’ doesn’t make them exempt. They may be getting bad information, but they also know exactly where to look.

-- The woman that I met at the Laundromat was far less offensive, but talking to her was no less comfortable. I went to the Laundromat to drop off clothes I couldn’t hand dry because it had been raining for four straight days. What I got was a twenty minute lecture on how Ulises Ruiz and the local Esquipulas government choose a person to murder at the beginning of each day and, by the end of the day, eliminate them. She spent an additional ten minutes telling me about Noticias, the newspaper where she learns all this inside information. I assured her I could remember the name of the newspaper to buy on my own (No-ti-ci-as). That didn’t stop her from scouring the store and the front of the house so she could find a paper, rip off a page that had the title, rip off the title, and flatten the slip for me to put in my pocket!

I had trouble restraining laughter by the end of this, but that wasn’t the reason I was uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable because she had delivered virtually the entire lecture two feet in front of my face! By the end, especially when she was describing the importance of the Noticias slip, she would move so close to my face that I would crane my neck back as an automatic reaction. The problem was, her automatic reaction was to crane her neck in closer towards me!














A less psychotic, but no less aggressive person I met in Esquipulas was Doña Marina. Doña Marina is one of the mothers I’m teaching at Niños Unidos. In class, she’s relatively calm and well-behaved. Apparently because she gets all of her asshole out at breakfast.

One morning, it was her turn on the meal rotation, so she brought breakfast to the house. Before she actually served the food, though, she had a conversation with Rafael. Now, Rafael is a patient person. He can tolerate someone talking a little long. He can tolerate interruptions. The conversation with Doña Marina, however, tried his patience. She started by asking him what he thought of the teachers’ situation. He basically said that it’s “difficult. Without the ability to protest, the teachers have no power. If the teachers prematurely relent, they’ll have no power. If they have no power, a corrupt governor like Ulises will crush them. On the other hand, it’s not good to have every kid in Oaxaca miss school for two months.”

I say Rafael ‘basically’ said this because at various points during the conversation Rafael would begin to say this, and Dona Marina would interject: “So you support lawless hoodlums?” Rafael would say three words, and she’d go off: “So you ignore the fact that Ulises has been the most fearless, productive governor we’ve had in years? Because of the words of a couple of gamberros (hooligans)?” Rafael would continue to talk for a sentence or two after each interruption – because people usually take that as a sign to stop talking – but Doña Marina would not relent.

Thankfully, though, the conversation did relent after about twenty minutes, and Doña Marina served breakfast. Her initial gesture was generous: she put a lot of food on my plate. Problem was, Augustus Gloop couldn’t eat all the food on my plate. There must’ve been nine tortillas on it, smothered in a river of liquid frijole y queso (liquid beans and cheese). I didn’t know how I was ever going to finish it, but I kept plugging away.

A minute after I started, she asked if I wanted more queso. “More queso?” I thought. “No, thank you,” I said. A minute later, she asked the same. “More queso?” I thought. But, once again, I politely made clear that that was all I needed at the moment. Two more minutes past and two more times she badgered. The first time I said, “Well, maybe I could take a little,” figuring it would quiet her down. A minute later, though, the same question. Finally, the fifth minute, the fifth time, she took the huge mound of queso – and a smaller, chunkier mound from her bag – and crumbled them all over my heaping plate!

I was kind of shocked by what she’d done, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I kept plugging away. I finished twenty-five minutes later. As many of you know, I’m an incredibly slow eater, but this was one plate. A plate which, according to Elsa, my host mom, was only half filled! (Apparently when Doña Marina arrived at the house, the wet tortillas were piled twice as high. This prompted Elsa to remark, “Oh, you didn’t need to bring food for everyone, gracias.” To which Doña Marina replied: “No, this is just for him.” Elsa said she did then remove half of the food, but considering the two subsequent cheese mounds, nothing much changed).

The final result of Doña Marina’s comida: my “Ovaltine” emissions at 3, 4, 5, and 6 the next morning.

Personas Chulas en Esquipulas (Awesome People in Esquipulas)

Henry’s mom, Señora Gela. Because of her we started classes the third day we were there. Because of her we’ve been able to get full government support for the project – something a number of other groups haven’t had. She also introduced us to…

Jorge Santiago, the coolest computer technician in Oaxaca. For starters, the guy refers to me as “Powell, Colin Powell.” That’s cool. He has also now given us 22 hours of free tech support, driven into the city twice to buy computer parts, rewired all of the Agencia computers, installed an internet connection in all of those computers, and recently, took on an entire other project – the Niños Unidos computers. The actual time we’ve spent with him has been quality as well. We’ve found out that his wife works for an Anchor-like special-needs organization in Zocalo; that his nephew, Danny Santiago, was the placekicker for the University of Michigan and will now start for Henry’s own Seahawks; that he lived in Los Angeles for four years; that he’s attending a wedding in a few weeks in North Dakota; and that he has friends “en cualquier country in the mundo.”

Virtually every family on the meal rotation. Including:
-- The family that had a pet squirrel. We’re not the only ones!
-- The family that arranged a mototaxi to take me home even though I lived seven minutes from the house
-- The family that braved hurricane-like conditions to bring atole and ternera
-- The family that served me crackling taquitos and tostadas under the bright lights of their Oaxaca restaurant
-- The family that first offered me oranges and then thought better of it, squeezing out of each of them a taste Tropicana Grovestand couldn’t match

Probably the most surreal meal rotation experience took place in the pouring rain. We had just finished a pleasant dinner and it was time to go home. I only had on a t-shirt, so they kindly offered me a jacket. I started to walk out the door and the father asked, “No quieres conducer?” (You don’t want to drive?) Oh, no, sorry, my program has rules against driving motorcycles. No, no moto, un bicicleta. A bike? In this weather?

But sure enough, the dad wheeled out a kids-size Schwinn mountain bike, all ready for me to ride back. The catch was, there was only one bike and their house was a good distance away, so I didn’t know how to get back to mine. “No importa,” the guy said, “Mi hijo puede conducir tambièn” (My son can ride as well). So that’s what we did.

The two of us sloshed and slid through the pouring rain at 10 o’clock at night, my feet on the mini pedals, the son’s feet on the mini pegs. The best part was wading through the Aguahallo mudhills. It’s difficult to navigate this area on foot in any sort of rain, much less on a bike and in a downpour. In reality, we weren’t in any real danger – no one was on the road, I’ve never seen a car on the road, and we certainly weren’t going fast – but riding through it definitely was exciting. And coming home soaked head to foot in rain and foot to waist in mud definitely was satisfying.

(My hairline, hair color, and body type has changed considerably since coming here. Friggin Montezuma).

Something More Lighthearted: Molé

There are virtually no knives in all of Esquipulas. Only spoons. There are, however, many Quinceañeras. At these Quinceañearas, they frequently serve pollo con molé (chicken with a chocolatey molé sauce). If the chicken is at all difficult to cut, and you have someone even remotely as smooth as me, you get a picture like this.

















Note: I was not able to get a picture of the more than 100 people in attendance who shook their heads and mouthed “gringo sucio” silently, but trust me, they were there.

Am I More Than One Chicken Away from Skinning a Cat?

The answer to that question, thankfully, is no. I’m able to remain reasonably secure in the hierarchy of human --> ape --> dog --> cat --> chicken --> rat --> slug --> etc. It is, to an extent, an arbitrary hierarchy, placing animals that humans want as pets above others who may be more advanced, but it is also a logical one. A slug is worth less than a dog, and a dog is worth less than a human no matter how you slice it. Each plays its role, but one is worth more and one is worth less.

I mention all this because I ripped the head off a chicken on Saturday. With a butcher’s knife. I held its head taut and sliced intently so it would be over quickly, but that did little to prevent the initial blood spurt, the period during which its head and body operated independently, or the final, neverending dissection.

Killing the animal was the scariest part. Dissecting it was the most disturbing. I was standing there, hands in lukewarm water, plucking feathers, watching its head do circles round the sink. This was the same annoying little rooster who’d run through the amaranth garden and woken me at 6am every day. And now I was watching its severed head do circles round the sink.

The reason I chose to do this in the first place when my family asked is that I eat chicken. If I eat chicken, I thought, I have to be able to kill a chicken. As bad and awkward as I felt doing it, I would have felt worse not doing it and continuing to eat chicken all the time in every conceivable form. Now that I’ve done it, I can at least eat without feeling like a hypocrite. And I can eat knowing I’m following evolution: more dominant species feed on less dominant species across the board. Provided you don’t torture or waste the animal, it’s not cruelty, just nature.

The one thing I’m having trouble getting over, though, is the chicken’s skin. When wet, in the sink, it feels exactly like that of a dog or a cat. Which is kind of disturbing because we have a dog and a cat in our yard here that are almost exactly the same size. I know I could get desensitized to killing and skinning chickens. What’s to say I couldn’t get used to doing the same thing to dogs and cats? For now, I know, the hierarchy, but it’s an unsettling line to draw.

Aren't There Copyright Laws on Photos?

http://www.examiner.com/a-188386~Gunmen_Attack_Oaxaca_Student_Radio_Station.html

Esquipulas, a canine representation

Esquipulas, the actual place

Zocalo, a canine representation

Zocalo, the actual place