The Ups and Downs of Mission Life

As a foreigner in Mexico, I always feel like I am leading a life out of my control, and the addition of cold medications and a fever last week heightened that sensation. My illness kept me quarantined from work and made me feel like a puppet, being pulled in these directions:

Down, face-flat, backside-exposed, with a nun hovering over me while holding a syringe. After a quick check-up, Sr. Angelita diagnosed me as having a throat and ear infection and determined that penicillin would be the best course of treatment. The situation made me nervous, because everything Sr. told me was through translation and I couldn´t get all of the information I would have liked. Additionally, at the time we weren´t actually sure of Sister´s credentials as a doctor, as the term is sometimes self-imposed here. (Since then, we´ve learned she has a medical degree.) Feeling awful, I made a few calls to the States and my family confirmed that there would be no harm in taking penicillin. Except to my dignity, as Angelita injected penicillin into rear everyday for a week, meaning that I´ve been exposed to a woman I don´t know that well but who sees me on a daily basis.

Up, on the dance floor, during a church party for Guillito´s birthday party that is laden with family, mole (a complex salsa that contains 23 ingredients) and tequila. Guillito is Father Salvador´s 76 year-old helper who is a cook, natural healer, chain-smoker and everybody´s grandfather, as he always offers hugs, handshakes and kind words spoken in a growly voice.Since the three of us are among the few family members there,I feel a bit out of place, and while making small talk with a nephew about his fondness for Vegas, gambling and cockfights, Guillito calls me toward him. I think he wants to introduce me to a family member, but instead he grabs me and starts salsa dancing. I am not big on dancing, but I go along with it because it´s his birthday. Then relatives and parish staff members start cutting in, gesturing that they can outdance Guillito. As I am spun about and my picture is taken with various partners, I realize that as a young, white woman in a Mexican parish basement, I am somewhat of a novelty act. My presence is similar to a Budweiser Girl walking into a sleepy, neighborhood bar in the United States. Though helping old men regain their youth isn´t exactly the mission I came for, raising my cultural awareness is important, so I master a few more steps of salsa.

To the side of the metro I am pushed, during a Saturday shopping excursion with Sr. Angelita. Originally, I was supposed to help Sr. start a nutrition club, but when the first meeting feel through, she invited me to go to the city with her to buy medical supplies....8:00 in the morning. Sister Angelita is no nonense, so during the busride to the metro station she pulls out an English-Spanish dictionary and we attempt to teach each other our respective languages. Once on the metro, the vehicle is so crowded that all we can do on it is try to hold on and stay standing. In the city, Sr. decides she´d like to take me to a museum that has yet to open. We spend an hour waiting in a nearby church (she behaves like a nun while I fall asleep) and then return to the museum. She then finds out it´s only free on Sundays, not Saturdays, and decides not to go. I spend the rest of the morning following her in an out of medical shops. She purchases a scale while I try to master parts of the body in Spanish using posters and I have my blood pressure taken three times as I help her pick out a reader. (It´s low.)

Up, to a chapel on the hill. Deacon Felipe invites us to a mass for four girls who have become lectors, and after a bus ride and steep upward walk, we attend the service taking place a small white building containing plastic chairs, a stereo, and a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe garbed in glittering green and red robes. Wearing white t-shits and black track pants, the girls smile throughout the ceremony and I do my best to stay awake.

Afterward, Deacon Felipe brings us to the church to eat. In the kitchen are people who make up a sort of parish family--single woman away living on their own or separated from their family, developmentally handicapped young men who work at the parish, clergy members and Guillito. Though the women are always friendly as they cook in the kitchen, and the boys eagerly chat with us, I never quite feel like I belong there. The people who have found a home their are among those who are most looked over by society and I am glad they have a place where they feel comfortable and have companionship. However, whether it´s a language or lifestyle barrier, or the fact that there always offering me food that contains meat and dairy, I have difficulty spending too much time there, so it´s an early Friday night.

Now, it´s back to work and while I appreciated the break, I missed being with the kids. Sickness has made me appreciate my health and the fact that I can now choose where to go each day and I feel like things are looking up.

p.s. Up, up and away I cast my ballot. Since I am voting absentee, I had to send it out early. Go Obama!!