***
Every since the baby went on vacation with Mom and Dad in California for two weeks, she's come back a changed woman. She's taken her first steps. She has more personality, will power, facial expressions, and blonde fuzz then we can remember her having just days ago. Last week, as I was rushing around attempting to share kitchen space with 10 people while helping to prepare dinner for 18, I zoomed past a congregation of volunteers sitting on the dining room floor. I thought it was a reunion of sorts because Nico and Jill had just gotten back, but, in my hurry, I underestimated the grandiosity of the occasion. Agnita had walked! I was quickly pulled into the circle and sat in excited delight as Nita took proud, stocky steps from person to person. It was more like a prolonged wobble as she gleefully fell into waiting arms, but it couldn't be denied: she had walked. She gets better and better by the day, pulling herself up on her own feet and balancing with one security fist clenched around an adult finger. She has an adorable scowl now and throws around the word "no" with more authority. Today she stole the show at a local restaurant when a street minstrel came in to play his guitar (a frequent occurrence). As he strummed along, Nita bounced on the floor with all the enthusiasm of a swooning adolescent in the front row of a pop concert. She's a natural born dancer, expressive and rhythmic and utterly content bopping to the beat of even a cell phone ring.
***
It's Friday night, and we find ourselves at another birthday party. An imposing group of white foreign faces, we descend on an otherwise humble gathering for the roommate of a friend of a friend. I have rarely felt so keenly that I was playing into stereotypes as I do tonight, dancing with wacky abandon to Michael Jackson with my fellow volunteers. The Mexicans in the room are seated, staring, as we jiggle and jive around the dance floor, loud and fun-loving and oblivious. It is a blast. It's hard to tell whether it's the familiar music or the thrill of the performance, but I'm laughing so hard that I can barely keep up. This crowd of Mexicans feels a bit alternative, a bit reserved. Even when salsa fills the room, they do not leave their chairs to join us. I'm not doing a good job mingling as the only new person I talk to is a bearded man named "Chewy" who manages to chuckle politely at my Star Wars jokes.
Within moments, none of this matters- not the cultural tensions, nor the disconcerting amount of mirrors lining the walls, nor the forced party conversation- one of my friends is sick, reeling from the combination of hash brownies and alcohol. I have never seen someone sick like this before. As a child, I had an intense, irrational fear of vomiting which I'm glad is no longer with me. Yet, I know that I will not soon be able to shake the image of my young Mexican friend, so vulnerable, his head plastered to the sink, vomit spilling out of his mouth, people huddled around in nervous disbelief. As others attend to him with expert care, I feel my heart, mind, and maternal instincts race out of control: ...Will he have to go to the hospital? Will he survive? Why were we not monitoring him? I have never seen someone go from tipsy to toxic before my eyes. Will he be okay? What can I do? This is what those TV shows are about. This is what most people see their freshman year in college... Miraculously, the next day, he wakes up fine. He is sans hangover because every last foreign substance has been heaved from his stomach. With a sheepish grin, he smiles at me, embarrassed but with a hint of youthful pride. Amazed, I cannot stop marveling about the body's power to heal itself, nor can I stop remembering how terrifying it is to have a friend's life threatened by something so trivial as drugs and alcohol.
***
As I wind down another guest tour of the Casa, Nancy and I pause in the hallway to connect a little bit beyond details about quiet hours and which faucet produces drinkable water. There's a bit of awkwardness as we pause, preparing to separate ways- I to the reception, her to her new room. She's a middle aged woman who radiates a certain kindness, which is only reinforced in the moment when she tells me that she does not mind sleeping in the dormitory with ten college-aged girls. This year she's done volunteer work for 3 months in Tulum, Mexico and is now back in this country to promote her friend's artwork. As she asks about my story, I frame my response in a way that I sometimes do, "Well, I just can't stop coming back to Mexico. It holds an inexplicable appeal for me." Smile, nervous laughter, hands in pockets. She understands completely, and we begin to talk about just what it is that we love so much.
She puts words to it in a way that brings clarity for me. "In Mexico there is an overall, heart-warming sense of humanity. In the States, sometimes it just feels as if there is a false sheen over everything." "Like we have to keep up pretenses, appearances..." "Yes! Exactly!" We go on like this, and I realize that this is a key piece of the equation for me. Somehow, people seem more real here. There is less fear about appearing a certain way, there is less effort put into portraying the image that you have everything in your life under control. For instance, Mexicans are simply not great dressers. They do not generally dress in a way that flatters them, even though Mexico is the second most obese country in the world (second to the US). Many women have bellies, or panzas, that they do not try to conceal, but instead wear tight-fitting tops and jeans. While bad dressing and obesity are not things that would be typically lauded, I think in some ways they reflect Mexico's embrace of humanity: the good, the bad, the ugly. It's nice not feeling the unrealistic expectation to dress to impress which rules the streets in, oh say, NYC. In the same area of body image, I don't feel the same sense of shame when I eat here as I do in the States. When someone offers me food, I take it and enjoy it, but at home I often play into the silly game of, "Oh, no thanks, I couldn't possibly...". Somehow I feel free to be more honest here; even in minute interactions with strangers I don't feel the need to put on a show. Maybe it has something to do with the lack of inhibition that comes with being a foreigner; ie: because I'm not fully invested here, because in the back of my mind I know this isn't home, I'm less worried about how people perceive me. At any rate, I still think it has something to do with Mexico. Something about this country fills me with a joyful appreciation for humanity: for the taco vendors, for the little old men, for the babies slung to their mothers, for the business women on the metro, for the teenagers ambling slowly down the street. I look around, and I see life being lived: rapidly, slowly, humbly, authentically, fully.
1 comment:
The last 2 paragraphs of this post really resonated with me. I'm a gringa who feels the same way about Mexico. I'm just about done turning my life upside-down so that I can spend several months in the Yucatan. Thanks for the well-written thoughts on the mysterious pull of Mexico.
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