Chinatown to Mexico City

While not quite the Silk Road, there is an element of exoticism and danger that pervades when traveling on Chinatown bus lines, services on the East Coast that take you from the Chinatown of one major city to the Chinatown of another major one. Last year, while living in Washington, DC, I frequently used this mode of transportation to visit my then boyfriend who was living in New York City. For about $15, I travelled among college students, Asians and the budget-conscious, chauffeured by driver who barely spoke English. The bus smelled of fried rice, contained overhead TVs that played erotic Japanese movies, and during rest stops I worried about making it back in time before the bus took off. The trip took about 4-8 hours depending on traffic and the level of comfort was often affected by whether or not the heater or air conditioner was working.

At first, I didn't mind the bus because I was having a great time visiting New York. Eventually, I came to find the mode of transportation tiresome and it seemed to exemplify how hard I had things. I asked myself, why couldn't I have a boyfriend who lived in the same city as me, why was it always me going out my way to see him, why couldn't I afford a more comfortable means of transportation, and why couldn't everyone just speak English?

Soon enough, those trips came to an end, but as a reminder I had a skirt that I had bought during a visit to the city. I wore it in one day to the mental health clinic where I was doing volunteer work. On this day, Dorothy (one of students,) was in a particularly social and chatty mood. (Her states of being were variable-sometimes she wore drab colors and gave one word responses to questions, other times she wore tons of makeup, flowery dresses and was full of curiosity.)

"I like your skirt," Dorothy said to me. "Where did you get it from?"

After I told her, her eyes widened in surprise and she said in awe, "I would love to go shopping in New York City."

I was about to say that it really wasn't a big deal, but then I realized how much of a big deal a lot of elements of my life that I took for granted and complained about would be to her. Dorothy didn't have the emotional stability to be in a romantic relationship , the confidence to take a long trip, or the extra funds to put toward unnecessary clothing or travel.

In talking with her, I was able to see how blessed I was in my own life and saw that I should appreciate the experiences that I had, particularly the ones I found daunting. Realizing how much I have makes me feel obligated to practice works of mercy.

As such, I'm going on this mission trip. Most people who have done the type of the volunteer work that I will be doing say that they get more out of the experience then do those they serve. The spirit of mission is to help those in other cultures or situations and to listen and learn from them. (The story of the Visitation is in this vein, as when the Virgin Mary goes to see her cousin Elizabeth, they are both with child and they provide comfort to one another.)

However, thinking that I must go to and will be changed by the less fortunate brings up a new conflict in me--I wonder if I am sanctimonious and arrogant in believing that I can make a difference and also if I am using others to feel better about myself.

I could spend lots of time mulling this or debating it with academics, but I've drawn upon faith to put my mind at ease. I believe that going to Mexico is the right decision for me and both others and myself will benefit from it.

But boy, will I miss the cheap steamed dumplings and veggie-fried rice, available all hours.