Today was a miserable day. I woke up with light cold symptoms, but felt worn-out and exhausted. I decided to sleep in an hour before heading to work.
After managing to get out of bed, I pulled on my last remaining pair of clean pants and then went down to the kitchen and spilled coffee all over them. I changed into less-dirty clothes, and scared myself by looking in the mirror and seeing a round puffy face, small squinty eyes, and limp stringy hair. When I tried to put my contacts in, my eyes stung so much that I had to give up. I decided that it just wasn't meant for me to go into work that day, and I went downstairs with a blanket and Spanish book.
I spent the day the puttering around, studying Spanish and doing errands. I cooked, went to the bank and did laundry. Still, I felt lonely and sick and also guilty for skipping out of work. In the past, I've managed to make it into the office with worse symptoms, so I asked myself if I truly didn't go in because I lacked the physical and emotional energy, or if the lack of a boss and deadlines was keeping me away.
All my feelings were ingredients ripe for creating depression. To counter them, I thought back to magazine articles I've read giving advice on how to snap out of a bad mood. As I recalled them, I also thought of excuses not to utilize them.
-- Call a friend -Here I don't really have any that I can carry a true conversation with.
--Go for a walk-It's smoggy and dangerous out.
--Exercise--I feel to sick to move.
--Volunteer--This one makes the guilt over not going into work come back.
--Prayer--Well.....One of the reasons that I chose this program is that a want to grow in faith. And there's a chapel in my house. Or rather, I live in a chapel, as the house used to be part of a larger church that was torn down except for the chapel that now has a my house attached to it.
In any event, there's no excuse not to pray so I spent about twenty minutes talking to God with statues of Jesus and Mary next to me, while pedestrians on the street walked past, making the sign of the cross and putting coins in the donation box.
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It makes things a bit better, but I also have to him admit that I'm dwelling on a fight I had with my ex-boyfriend. He wanted to come visit but I thought it might blur the lines of the friendship we're trying to maintain. Feeling lonely, I'm regretting the decision, and I miss the days when we were friends living in the same country and I could call him up when in a bad mood.
There are lots of reasons why things didn't work out between us, but I start listing all the things about me that make me a bad girlfriend. I skirt around from job to job, I like to go out drinking, I'm flaky and get times, directions and addresses mixed up. Mostly, I think of his biggest issue with me--that I'm not driven or passionate.
Family members and co-workers have said the same thing about me--that I have potential but need to find something to be wrapped up in. I wonder if they're right, and that's why I am sitting alone and sad. Surely, if I were really passionate about helping others, then I wouldn't let the sniffles hold me back from going to those in need. So, I decide to compile a list of things that I want (besides clean clothes and hot water) hoping it will spark a passion:
I want to go to the beaches of Greece, the villages of my ancestors in Ireland and to temples in India. I want to work on a kibbutz in Israel and teach English in a prison in America and write about my experiences. I want to go to graduate school and adopt children. I want to be in love and have someone I can always talk to. I want to learn Spanish and French. I want to feel closer to God.
It's not hard to come up with things , but I am waiting for one thing on my wish list to strike me so deeply that I am willing to pursue it all costs because it will bring me happiness. I realize that though I'm very concerned with figuring out what I want, the question I should be asking is, ''God, what do you want from me?''
This is what I hear:
I want you to love people. I want you to be happy. I want you to give of yourself. I want you to feel bad when you need to. I want you to love me. I want you to forgive yourself.
I can't criticize passion, because it's been responsible for great works of art and literature, vital innovations and political systems. But it has also led to war and murder and can cause people to neglect relationships. I think that what God is telling me is that if I wasn't born with an obsessive desire to achieve something, that's it's okay and I shouldn't try to force it. It's enough to love Him and others and when I fail to do that, he wants forgive myself.
We'll see how much better I get.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Listening to Mom
Despite the fact that I´ve never gone very far career-wise, I`ve done lots of things that look good on my resume. I graduated from one of the most prestigious universities in the country (particularly true if your definition of prestigious is expensive), I interned on Capitol Hill and I`ve worked at think tanks. During my last job I learned all kinds of things about computers, even though technology scares me. All of these things were supposed to be stepping stones or learning experiences for me to climb up the corporate ladder.
This morning while volunteering, I changed bedsheets while playing peek-a-boo with a bed-ridden women by throwing a blanket over her face. I put pigtails in the girls` hair and then took them on walks. I can`t say that many of my past work and school experiences have been too useful for what I do at the Sisters` house. Instead, lessons learned from my mom when I was less than ten years old, are what I fall back on while I work.
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Even if you don`t clean your room, you should always take the time to make your bed because it gives a sense of order to things, my mother has advised me repeatedly. When I was little, my favorite day of the week was the day I discovered my mother had placed fresh sheets on my bed. Having a tidy, cozy place to sleep made me feel better when I was alone at nights.
Now, it`s a little tedious for me to change a roomful of beds every two days at work. Though I´m generally not a very detail-oriented person, I take the time to tuck in sheets carefully and fold them crisply, because the girls spend so much of their time in their beds and I want them to feel welcomed into them.
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I had long, knotty hair hair when I was little that I hated having combed. My mother and sister did it lovingly, letting me watch TV while it was done and hugging me afterward.
The girls at work pull away and sometimes scratch me as I fix their hair. I know they don`t like being groomed and I know it has to be done anyway, so I am as gentle as possible and play with them when it`s over.
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One warm Spring day when I was nine, I was in a sullen mood as my mother took my sister, my grandmother and me to the mall. (I think I was upset because I wasn´t allowed to sit in the front seat.) My mother took me aside and told me to act pleasant for my grandmother`s sake and to say things like ``Look at the pretty flowers and, ``It`s such a nice day outside today.``
At the time, I thought it was ridiculous, though I repeated those statements to my grandmother stiffly. Now, I realize how much any sort of kind words or greetings mean to people who are infirmed. That`s why I play Peek-a-boo with girls in bed and make dolls dance in front of them. Since my Spanish vocabulary is limited, I find myself repeating ¨hola, hola, hola¨ and ¨yum, yum, yum¨ just to make the girls laugh.
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During a grumpy Summer, I spent most of my time in front of the TV alone. My mother recognized that I needed exercise and fresh air and forced me to go out for a walk with her, even though I complained the whole time.
There`s a 20-year old, skinny girl at work who can walk, but resists most of my attempts to get her out of her chair. Today I pulled her up and held her hands as she moved forward on stiff, fawn-like legs. At one point I had to lug her off the ground after she fell and refused to get up. It was awkward, but any sort of movement is vital when you barely get any at all.
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My grandmother had Altimizer`s Disease, and towards the end of her life, my mother used to say how she liked to see her enjoy her food because it was really the only pleasure she had left. I think of this today because it takes me almost an hour to feed Diana, a 25 year-old girl who chews her food slowly and lets it fall back on her plate after it enters her mouth. Of course, I`m not really sure if she even wants the plate of rice and chicken, but I keep at it anyway since she needs it and is maybe trying to savour it.
It gives me time to reflect on what I am doing, and how it differs from the corporate world. I have to admit that the qualities that I possess that make me capable of volunteering--patience and an ability to go with the flow--haven`t helped me be successful at some past jobs because they go hand-in-hand with me not having a sense of urgency about things and being disorganized.
I am worrying about my future and how ít`s going to be when I have job that requires me to contribute to the economy again, when Paulina - one of the three year-old twins who has been taken outside to play- comes in and sits on my lap while I continue feeding Diana.
Then a nun who is not quite so patient comes along and takes the plate of food away from me saying that Diana needs to hurry up and eat. After a few attempts to put food in Diana`s mouth, the nun gives up and one of the regular volunteers--a matronly, short, plump woman who wears purple eyeshadow and likes to lead grace--comes over and gives Diana baby food. Another nun walks over and chastises Diana for eating baby food when such good food is available.
I hold and carry Paulina for a while and then bring her upstairs to where the babies sleep. I stay past visiting hours and when I am supposed to go, and read to Vickie and let the twin girls fight for a place on my lap. I am tired and hungry and want to leave, but I stay because I recognize the importance of what mothers teach little girls and I worry about those who don`t have them.
This morning while volunteering, I changed bedsheets while playing peek-a-boo with a bed-ridden women by throwing a blanket over her face. I put pigtails in the girls` hair and then took them on walks. I can`t say that many of my past work and school experiences have been too useful for what I do at the Sisters` house. Instead, lessons learned from my mom when I was less than ten years old, are what I fall back on while I work.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Even if you don`t clean your room, you should always take the time to make your bed because it gives a sense of order to things, my mother has advised me repeatedly. When I was little, my favorite day of the week was the day I discovered my mother had placed fresh sheets on my bed. Having a tidy, cozy place to sleep made me feel better when I was alone at nights.
Now, it`s a little tedious for me to change a roomful of beds every two days at work. Though I´m generally not a very detail-oriented person, I take the time to tuck in sheets carefully and fold them crisply, because the girls spend so much of their time in their beds and I want them to feel welcomed into them.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I had long, knotty hair hair when I was little that I hated having combed. My mother and sister did it lovingly, letting me watch TV while it was done and hugging me afterward.
The girls at work pull away and sometimes scratch me as I fix their hair. I know they don`t like being groomed and I know it has to be done anyway, so I am as gentle as possible and play with them when it`s over.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One warm Spring day when I was nine, I was in a sullen mood as my mother took my sister, my grandmother and me to the mall. (I think I was upset because I wasn´t allowed to sit in the front seat.) My mother took me aside and told me to act pleasant for my grandmother`s sake and to say things like ``Look at the pretty flowers and, ``It`s such a nice day outside today.``
At the time, I thought it was ridiculous, though I repeated those statements to my grandmother stiffly. Now, I realize how much any sort of kind words or greetings mean to people who are infirmed. That`s why I play Peek-a-boo with girls in bed and make dolls dance in front of them. Since my Spanish vocabulary is limited, I find myself repeating ¨hola, hola, hola¨ and ¨yum, yum, yum¨ just to make the girls laugh.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
During a grumpy Summer, I spent most of my time in front of the TV alone. My mother recognized that I needed exercise and fresh air and forced me to go out for a walk with her, even though I complained the whole time.
There`s a 20-year old, skinny girl at work who can walk, but resists most of my attempts to get her out of her chair. Today I pulled her up and held her hands as she moved forward on stiff, fawn-like legs. At one point I had to lug her off the ground after she fell and refused to get up. It was awkward, but any sort of movement is vital when you barely get any at all.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My grandmother had Altimizer`s Disease, and towards the end of her life, my mother used to say how she liked to see her enjoy her food because it was really the only pleasure she had left. I think of this today because it takes me almost an hour to feed Diana, a 25 year-old girl who chews her food slowly and lets it fall back on her plate after it enters her mouth. Of course, I`m not really sure if she even wants the plate of rice and chicken, but I keep at it anyway since she needs it and is maybe trying to savour it.
It gives me time to reflect on what I am doing, and how it differs from the corporate world. I have to admit that the qualities that I possess that make me capable of volunteering--patience and an ability to go with the flow--haven`t helped me be successful at some past jobs because they go hand-in-hand with me not having a sense of urgency about things and being disorganized.
I am worrying about my future and how ít`s going to be when I have job that requires me to contribute to the economy again, when Paulina - one of the three year-old twins who has been taken outside to play- comes in and sits on my lap while I continue feeding Diana.
Then a nun who is not quite so patient comes along and takes the plate of food away from me saying that Diana needs to hurry up and eat. After a few attempts to put food in Diana`s mouth, the nun gives up and one of the regular volunteers--a matronly, short, plump woman who wears purple eyeshadow and likes to lead grace--comes over and gives Diana baby food. Another nun walks over and chastises Diana for eating baby food when such good food is available.
I hold and carry Paulina for a while and then bring her upstairs to where the babies sleep. I stay past visiting hours and when I am supposed to go, and read to Vickie and let the twin girls fight for a place on my lap. I am tired and hungry and want to leave, but I stay because I recognize the importance of what mothers teach little girls and I worry about those who don`t have them.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Beautiful Girls
I attended a friends' office party in a sports bar in Los Angeles a few months before coming here. Naturally, someone asked me what I did for a living, and I said that I planned to do volunteer work abroad and then return to the United States and study social work. The man then asked me what particular aspect of social work it is that I want to focus on.
''I'm not sure yet,'' I shrugged. ''I just want to help people.''
The guy-- in his mid-30's and in the television entertainment industry--laughed and said ''Come on. That's not a plan. That's a Miss America contestant response.''
I got the feeling that he was chiding me, that he was implying that though I might be pretty and sweet, I lack depth. His assessment didn't bother me, because throughout my adolescence I was awkward, solemn and studious. Now, when people make allusions to me being beautiful (but frivolous because of that), I'm somewhat proud because I think I've come a long way for people to think I could have fit in with the cheerleaders in high school.
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Here in Santa Fe, there are so many people that need help that I don't have to worry about finding a cause--things just come up. On Saturday, I go with Sr. Angelita to visit some of her neighbors in need.
Sr. Angelita is a busy, busy nun. As a doctor who specializes in nutrition, she sees patients in her home at all hours of the night. Angelita also works in a school, but sells fruit and used goods in her downtime to raise money for her work. I have a lot of respect for all she does, but I often feel nervous around her because she acts as if she is judging how much Jessica and I do. She quizzes us about our schedules and tisks and makes faces when we talk about the getaway day trips we take.
However, she greets me kindly when I go to her house on Saturday afternoon. Despite her being stricken by a severe cold and headache, we still go ahead with the visiting. The first stop is at the home of a woman with a severely handicapped daughter.
I am first surprised by the house because of its brand-new wooden door, but then shocked by how nice it is inside. There are wooden floors, as well as beautiful dining and sofa sets that look like they have come from a J.C. Penney's catalog, and a home entertainment system. Most houses or single-room dwellings in Santa Fe contain only simple, second-hand furniture, if any.
We go upstairs to greet the Jaquelina, a 22-year old woman who sits on a bed in a room full of dolls. Though she can talk, it is difficult for her to be understood, and she can barely walk. I try to entertain her with a toy while Angelita talks to the mother. From what I understand of the conversation, Angelita presses the mother to take Jaquelina to the hospital for rehabilitation and says that the daughter is too thin and needs to eat and exercise more. A schedule is worked out whereby I will bring the girl on walks one day a week, and Angelita and a relative will take turns as well.
Angelita and I chat with the girl while the mother is out of the room, and Angelita tells her that she is beautiful. I think that that could be true, but what good does it do her with her stuck in her room the way she is?
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When we go on to the next stop, there is a ill-kept women sitting in front of the house sniffing paint-thinner. Angelita introduces her as Lupita. When I go to shake her hand, I jump when one of the four dogs surrounding her nips at the bag of my leg, but Angelita and Lupita assure me that the dogs don't bite.
I sit on the ground to talk to Lupita, who, while sniffing paint, asks me where I am from and how old I am. I learn that she is 38, nine years older than me. I am able to understand when she tells me that I am beautiful, but Angelita has to translate that Lupita tells me that I am beautiful, she is ugly and that she loves me. I try to comfort her by rubbing her legs, but she says ''Que bonita'' and pulls away from me.
Angelita tells Lupita that she is beautiful, and then says to me that when Lupita was well, she really was beautiful. I can tell that that though she may be skinny, disheveled, dirty and wild-eyed now, if she were to comb her hair, use moisturizer, and eat vegetables and fish for a month, she would regain her looks.
Like me, Lupita has brown hair and brown eyes and we are about the same height. I wonder if she looks at me and sees herself almost a decade ago. I know that she can't have been using for the past nine years, because she surely would be dead by now.
I'm reminded of another conversation I had in a bar five years ago, a trendy spot in D.C. that has an hour wait to get in. My girlfriends and I were chatting with a group of guys who wanted to move on to another spot. I hurried to finish my drink before going, but one man stopped me and said ''Don't worry about it. I'll buy you another when we get to the next place. Beautiful girls don't chug beer.''
While I'm with Lupita, I can't help but think that beautiful girls don't sit in the dirt surrounded by filthy dogs that are covered in fleas, breathing in the scent of paint-thinner.
We leave Luipita to visit her mother, Doña Mari. She lives in a one-room dwelling that contains two beds and a tattered sofa. Two teen aged boys lie on one bed watching a tiny television. They sort through papers, while Angelita asks about food they need. I actually don't pay too much attention and instead look for open wounds on my leg, but fortunately find none.
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Back at the nuns' house, I attend a nutrition session for a twelve-year old girl who is tall, round in the face and on the verge of becoming quite large. Angelita lectures her on how many calories to eat, portion control, the need for exercise and how she should drink nothing but water. The girl, who is wearing tight jeans and a snug pink jacket, smiles and then goes on her way to a fiesta. Angelita tells me that the mother of the girl is very overweight and she is worried about the girl becoming so as well.
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Our next stop is to visit another Doña Mari, an elderly lady who lives next store to Angelita that Jessica and I visit on our own very often. Dona Mari is sweet, nurturing and grandmotherly. At her house, Angelita tells me we can eat if she wants because Doña Mari always has food around. I know this to be true, but am surprised that Angelita suggests it since there is always food in her place as well. Hungry, I agree to eat and Angelita scrambles eggs for me as Doña Mari cooks chicken and vegetable soup for her. As we eat, Doña Mari runs around bringing us sugar and coffee, and constantly offers us more fruit, cookies and drinks. Doña Mari tells me I am welcome in the house anytime, that I can spend the night if I want. Angelita sounds terrible but the soup seems to make her feel good and I realize that despite her toughness and ability to take control, there are times when she too needs to be taken care of and fussed over.
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Doña Mari's is our last stop of the day, and after leaving Angelita at her house, I see Lupita sitting on the corner. I greet her again and not knowing what to say, I tell her that tomorrow I am going to church. I am not trying to push religion on her, but I think it would be a good place for her because everyone is so welcoming, and maybe Father would know of how to help her. Right away, she shakes her head.
''Do you want soda?'' she asks me, offering me a partially crushed can of Coke.
I tell her no, and neither of us say anything until she breaks the silence by asking me ''Quiere?''. It's the formal way of saying what do you want?
I want to cry. I want her to ask for something of me--my coat, a hug, money, food. I want to be able to give her something so that I can be angelic and helpful instead of pretty but useless. I want to know how she ended up this way. I want to know that if I didn't get lots of attention when I went to fancy bars to in the United States, that I wouldn't have ended up on the streets like Lupita.
I realize she just wants to be alone with her dogs and paint thinner. I feel awful as I tell her nothing, say good-bye and walk away.
''I'm not sure yet,'' I shrugged. ''I just want to help people.''
The guy-- in his mid-30's and in the television entertainment industry--laughed and said ''Come on. That's not a plan. That's a Miss America contestant response.''
I got the feeling that he was chiding me, that he was implying that though I might be pretty and sweet, I lack depth. His assessment didn't bother me, because throughout my adolescence I was awkward, solemn and studious. Now, when people make allusions to me being beautiful (but frivolous because of that), I'm somewhat proud because I think I've come a long way for people to think I could have fit in with the cheerleaders in high school.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Here in Santa Fe, there are so many people that need help that I don't have to worry about finding a cause--things just come up. On Saturday, I go with Sr. Angelita to visit some of her neighbors in need.
Sr. Angelita is a busy, busy nun. As a doctor who specializes in nutrition, she sees patients in her home at all hours of the night. Angelita also works in a school, but sells fruit and used goods in her downtime to raise money for her work. I have a lot of respect for all she does, but I often feel nervous around her because she acts as if she is judging how much Jessica and I do. She quizzes us about our schedules and tisks and makes faces when we talk about the getaway day trips we take.
However, she greets me kindly when I go to her house on Saturday afternoon. Despite her being stricken by a severe cold and headache, we still go ahead with the visiting. The first stop is at the home of a woman with a severely handicapped daughter.
I am first surprised by the house because of its brand-new wooden door, but then shocked by how nice it is inside. There are wooden floors, as well as beautiful dining and sofa sets that look like they have come from a J.C. Penney's catalog, and a home entertainment system. Most houses or single-room dwellings in Santa Fe contain only simple, second-hand furniture, if any.
We go upstairs to greet the Jaquelina, a 22-year old woman who sits on a bed in a room full of dolls. Though she can talk, it is difficult for her to be understood, and she can barely walk. I try to entertain her with a toy while Angelita talks to the mother. From what I understand of the conversation, Angelita presses the mother to take Jaquelina to the hospital for rehabilitation and says that the daughter is too thin and needs to eat and exercise more. A schedule is worked out whereby I will bring the girl on walks one day a week, and Angelita and a relative will take turns as well.
Angelita and I chat with the girl while the mother is out of the room, and Angelita tells her that she is beautiful. I think that that could be true, but what good does it do her with her stuck in her room the way she is?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When we go on to the next stop, there is a ill-kept women sitting in front of the house sniffing paint-thinner. Angelita introduces her as Lupita. When I go to shake her hand, I jump when one of the four dogs surrounding her nips at the bag of my leg, but Angelita and Lupita assure me that the dogs don't bite.
I sit on the ground to talk to Lupita, who, while sniffing paint, asks me where I am from and how old I am. I learn that she is 38, nine years older than me. I am able to understand when she tells me that I am beautiful, but Angelita has to translate that Lupita tells me that I am beautiful, she is ugly and that she loves me. I try to comfort her by rubbing her legs, but she says ''Que bonita'' and pulls away from me.
Angelita tells Lupita that she is beautiful, and then says to me that when Lupita was well, she really was beautiful. I can tell that that though she may be skinny, disheveled, dirty and wild-eyed now, if she were to comb her hair, use moisturizer, and eat vegetables and fish for a month, she would regain her looks.
Like me, Lupita has brown hair and brown eyes and we are about the same height. I wonder if she looks at me and sees herself almost a decade ago. I know that she can't have been using for the past nine years, because she surely would be dead by now.
I'm reminded of another conversation I had in a bar five years ago, a trendy spot in D.C. that has an hour wait to get in. My girlfriends and I were chatting with a group of guys who wanted to move on to another spot. I hurried to finish my drink before going, but one man stopped me and said ''Don't worry about it. I'll buy you another when we get to the next place. Beautiful girls don't chug beer.''
While I'm with Lupita, I can't help but think that beautiful girls don't sit in the dirt surrounded by filthy dogs that are covered in fleas, breathing in the scent of paint-thinner.
We leave Luipita to visit her mother, Doña Mari. She lives in a one-room dwelling that contains two beds and a tattered sofa. Two teen aged boys lie on one bed watching a tiny television. They sort through papers, while Angelita asks about food they need. I actually don't pay too much attention and instead look for open wounds on my leg, but fortunately find none.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Back at the nuns' house, I attend a nutrition session for a twelve-year old girl who is tall, round in the face and on the verge of becoming quite large. Angelita lectures her on how many calories to eat, portion control, the need for exercise and how she should drink nothing but water. The girl, who is wearing tight jeans and a snug pink jacket, smiles and then goes on her way to a fiesta. Angelita tells me that the mother of the girl is very overweight and she is worried about the girl becoming so as well.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Our next stop is to visit another Doña Mari, an elderly lady who lives next store to Angelita that Jessica and I visit on our own very often. Dona Mari is sweet, nurturing and grandmotherly. At her house, Angelita tells me we can eat if she wants because Doña Mari always has food around. I know this to be true, but am surprised that Angelita suggests it since there is always food in her place as well. Hungry, I agree to eat and Angelita scrambles eggs for me as Doña Mari cooks chicken and vegetable soup for her. As we eat, Doña Mari runs around bringing us sugar and coffee, and constantly offers us more fruit, cookies and drinks. Doña Mari tells me I am welcome in the house anytime, that I can spend the night if I want. Angelita sounds terrible but the soup seems to make her feel good and I realize that despite her toughness and ability to take control, there are times when she too needs to be taken care of and fussed over.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Doña Mari's is our last stop of the day, and after leaving Angelita at her house, I see Lupita sitting on the corner. I greet her again and not knowing what to say, I tell her that tomorrow I am going to church. I am not trying to push religion on her, but I think it would be a good place for her because everyone is so welcoming, and maybe Father would know of how to help her. Right away, she shakes her head.
''Do you want soda?'' she asks me, offering me a partially crushed can of Coke.
I tell her no, and neither of us say anything until she breaks the silence by asking me ''Quiere?''. It's the formal way of saying what do you want?
I want to cry. I want her to ask for something of me--my coat, a hug, money, food. I want to be able to give her something so that I can be angelic and helpful instead of pretty but useless. I want to know how she ended up this way. I want to know that if I didn't get lots of attention when I went to fancy bars to in the United States, that I wouldn't have ended up on the streets like Lupita.
I realize she just wants to be alone with her dogs and paint thinner. I feel awful as I tell her nothing, say good-bye and walk away.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Playing Dress-Up
I was in New York City interviewing for an editorial position at a prom planning website (affiliated with a wedding registry site), last year at this time. Despite the fact that I wore shiny lip gloss and put together a snappy book of writing samples, I think they saw through me and realized I had spent my own prom night alone, and just wouldn`t fit in around the office. Had I received that job, right now I would be in Manhattan dressed in a cute skirt, working in a chic office and writing about how to be stylish and land a dream date. Instead, I live on the outskirts of Mexico City and wear sweatpants to a workplace where most of my co-workers are celibate and women dress in white sari habits or worn, hand-me-down clothing. I realize that the job would not have suited me, but I still wonder if I could of hacked it as a party-scene reporter. For this blog posting, I am going to try to be one as I present the details of the wedding I attended with Jessica and Javier on Friday night, for one of their college friends.
Preperation
When packing for Mexico, Jessica and I both chose cargo pants over evening wear, so we struggle to find clothing suitable for the wedding. We both end up wearing black (a wedding faux pas as it symbolizes mourning). Each of us add color to our outfits with the scarves we had received as gifts from an associate (another faux pas, wearing matching clothing if you are over the age of ten).
Additionally, I didn`t pack dress shoes since I thought I could get by with sandals. I`ve since learned that it gets cold at night, so I go to buy new shoes. The shoplady looks at me blankly when I request a size eight and half, as the size system is different here. She brings me the largest shoe size possible, but it is still too small, as are several other styles. Feeling like an ugly stepsister as I struggle to make my feet fit, I wind up in boots.
The Ceremony
Outside the church, the bride, Monica, is greeting guests. She is small and beautiful and wears a form-fitting white gown decorated with royal purple trim. Her dark hair is teased and pulled back and her ears are decorated with handmade, white and purple, beaded and feathered earrings. The groom, David, is there looking dashing as well, but as any six year-old girl who owns one Ken doll for every 15 Barbie dolls knows, no one really cares what the men are wearing.
The ceremony takes place at St. Francisco`s Cathedral, which is elaborately and elegantly decorated with Renaissance-style murals and statues. Both the bride and groom walk down the aisle with their father and mother, followed by everyone attending the wedding. Mass seems pretty typical of other Catholic wedding services that I have attended, except that at one point, loose ropes tie the bride and groom together to signify their bond. Additionally, the groom gives the bride coins to show he will provide and she will take care of him.
The Reception
We drive an hour and a half away to the reception hall, a large room with square tables seating 12 on both sides of the dance floor. On a second floor alcove above the dance floor, the band plays. David and Monica wait in the car for everyone to arrive before they make their entrance. As soon as they walk in, they have their first dance to `You are so Beautiful to Me.` Beer and soda are served while guests dance to salsa and ranchero music.
Food
Dinner is not served until 12:30 in the morning. First course is cheese soup, next is creamed apples and the main dish is chicken with carrot salad. All of it is brought out by a tuxedoed waitstaff, who earlier had performed a sort of choreographed line-dance to start festivities.
Antics
When all single ladies are called to the dance floor, I think it is to catch the bouquet. Instead, the bride and groom stand on chairs across from each other, with David holding onto the end of Monica`s veil. Their fathers and a few men stand beside the chairs, holding onto their bodies. The women grasp hands and begin running around and under the veil. Intermittently, they knock themselves into the men surrounding Monica.
I soon realize that the goal is to bring Monica down. I am terrified and clutch Jessica`s hand and try not to injure any small girls. Monica stays standing and then tosses her bouquet. The same events occur for David, only with men who are able to bring him down and carry him around the room. He throws the garter belt, and the recipients of the tosses are offered to the crowd as dance partners.
Dancing
The band mostly plays salsa and I do my best to keep up with seasoned partners. However, I am completely lost when it comes to line-dancing. I think of something only Americans in the South and Western know how to do, but almost everyone at the wedding is adept at it. I let Javier and our tablemate Hewe guide me along to country songs that grow increasingly faster until everyone is exhausted.
Sweets and Treats
After dinner, a bottle of tequila is distributed to each table and the bride and groom are toasted while `Bittersweet Symphony` plays. They cut the cake and the crowd cheers them by chanting ``Chick-a-dee-chick-a-dee-boom-bam``
Happy Ending
We leave at 2:45 in the morning, even though the dancing is still going strong. I am in bed around 4:00. Though I am not be writing about the life of parties, there is still plenty of celebrating to do where I am now.
Preperation
When packing for Mexico, Jessica and I both chose cargo pants over evening wear, so we struggle to find clothing suitable for the wedding. We both end up wearing black (a wedding faux pas as it symbolizes mourning). Each of us add color to our outfits with the scarves we had received as gifts from an associate (another faux pas, wearing matching clothing if you are over the age of ten).
Additionally, I didn`t pack dress shoes since I thought I could get by with sandals. I`ve since learned that it gets cold at night, so I go to buy new shoes. The shoplady looks at me blankly when I request a size eight and half, as the size system is different here. She brings me the largest shoe size possible, but it is still too small, as are several other styles. Feeling like an ugly stepsister as I struggle to make my feet fit, I wind up in boots.
The Ceremony
Outside the church, the bride, Monica, is greeting guests. She is small and beautiful and wears a form-fitting white gown decorated with royal purple trim. Her dark hair is teased and pulled back and her ears are decorated with handmade, white and purple, beaded and feathered earrings. The groom, David, is there looking dashing as well, but as any six year-old girl who owns one Ken doll for every 15 Barbie dolls knows, no one really cares what the men are wearing.
The ceremony takes place at St. Francisco`s Cathedral, which is elaborately and elegantly decorated with Renaissance-style murals and statues. Both the bride and groom walk down the aisle with their father and mother, followed by everyone attending the wedding. Mass seems pretty typical of other Catholic wedding services that I have attended, except that at one point, loose ropes tie the bride and groom together to signify their bond. Additionally, the groom gives the bride coins to show he will provide and she will take care of him.
The Reception
We drive an hour and a half away to the reception hall, a large room with square tables seating 12 on both sides of the dance floor. On a second floor alcove above the dance floor, the band plays. David and Monica wait in the car for everyone to arrive before they make their entrance. As soon as they walk in, they have their first dance to `You are so Beautiful to Me.` Beer and soda are served while guests dance to salsa and ranchero music.
Food
Dinner is not served until 12:30 in the morning. First course is cheese soup, next is creamed apples and the main dish is chicken with carrot salad. All of it is brought out by a tuxedoed waitstaff, who earlier had performed a sort of choreographed line-dance to start festivities.
Antics
When all single ladies are called to the dance floor, I think it is to catch the bouquet. Instead, the bride and groom stand on chairs across from each other, with David holding onto the end of Monica`s veil. Their fathers and a few men stand beside the chairs, holding onto their bodies. The women grasp hands and begin running around and under the veil. Intermittently, they knock themselves into the men surrounding Monica.
I soon realize that the goal is to bring Monica down. I am terrified and clutch Jessica`s hand and try not to injure any small girls. Monica stays standing and then tosses her bouquet. The same events occur for David, only with men who are able to bring him down and carry him around the room. He throws the garter belt, and the recipients of the tosses are offered to the crowd as dance partners.
Dancing
The band mostly plays salsa and I do my best to keep up with seasoned partners. However, I am completely lost when it comes to line-dancing. I think of something only Americans in the South and Western know how to do, but almost everyone at the wedding is adept at it. I let Javier and our tablemate Hewe guide me along to country songs that grow increasingly faster until everyone is exhausted.
Sweets and Treats
After dinner, a bottle of tequila is distributed to each table and the bride and groom are toasted while `Bittersweet Symphony` plays. They cut the cake and the crowd cheers them by chanting ``Chick-a-dee-chick-a-dee-boom-bam``
Happy Ending
We leave at 2:45 in the morning, even though the dancing is still going strong. I am in bed around 4:00. Though I am not be writing about the life of parties, there is still plenty of celebrating to do where I am now.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
New Girl
The most handicapped child at the Home of Peace and Joy (where I volunteer) is also the child who is easiest to ignore. Hi name is Jésus Antonio, he is seven years old and his underdeveloped limbs are twisted toward each. He can´t talk or walk and he spends most of day in a crib with a feeding tube attached to him. While the other children are so small and cute that you gravitate toward them, or they are able to verbally demand attention, there is nothing compelling about Jésus except his helplessness.
I hold Jésus when we are in the playroom and is crying but I feel guilty because I don´t often go out of my way to be around him. Once, when I was the only person who noticed his dirty diaper, I tried to change him, but it was so complicated because of the tube and his size that a worker had to take over. For a few days afterwards, I felt depressed about the state of his life. Jésus makes me so uncomfortable and sad that I am able to get caught up in the needs of other children and forget about him.
On the whole, I have come to enjoy working with the children. At times, I am physically and emotionally exhausted by their demands and I get very frustrated by some of the policies in effect at the home. Still, after a few days away , I look forward seeing everyone again. I can count on certain things like taking camera photos with Vickie, holding newborn babies, and laughing at the toddler twins´ attempts to be picked up. (If I am carrying a child besides them, they will lead me toward an empty crib or highchair, gesturing me to put that child aside.) So, when I arrived at the home on Monday I felt disappointed when Sister told me I should start dividing my time between the children and the ¨girls,¨ and she sent me downstairs to work with the older group.
The ¨girls¨are a group of 12 women spanning in ages from 18 to 40, who are severely disabled. Most are wheelchair-bound and can´t speak. While some can walk, a few are even more deformed than Jésus. They spend their days sitting, drooling and occasionally babbling, wailing and laughing. Because they can´t keep their heads straight, their hair is styled in pigtails in order to keep it out of their faces. It is ironic to see grown women wearing multiple brightly- coloured and cartoonishly-decorated ponytail holders in their hair because it´s a look associated with little girls who are able to run around happily.
When I started working with the girls, I felt the same sort of uncertainty as to what to do with them as with the children because in either case they aren´t activities planned for them. It´s easier to know what to do the children because they always need something, while the ¨girls¨ can´t communicate. Additionally, the severity of their problems made me adverse toward reaching out to them in the same manner that I feel about Jésus.
I´ve been working with the ¨girls¨ for three days, and in the mornings I help comb their hair and push their wheelchairs into the sun. Then, I take them on walks and while some of them laugh and giggle while being pushed, it can be very tedious. Since I have been missing the gym, I´ve toward wheelchair walks into my personal work-out as I push and pull the chairs, spin them in circles and run while pushing.
Still, my mind tends to drift and I get somewhat philosophical. I wonder if it´s worth it for them to live lives where they get so little joy and if I am wasting my time by putting so much in to being with them. I try to think of how their lives could be better, but I don´t think even think an abundance of money or people around them could make a huge difference. I also contemplate how God got things so wrong and a world exists where this is the way people live. But then, I have to look at myself and ask why I feel an aversion to those who are most despondent and why I would feel more comfortable without them in the world.
It´s actually too much to think about and I´ve come to the conclusion that I am here to serve, they are the neediest, and therefore I´ll be with them. I understand why the Missionaries of Charity- who devote their lives to helping the neediest- spend so much time in prayer. They need to focus on Jesus and believe a better life exists for the sick, otherwise sadness would overwhelm them.
There are good things about being with the girls. I spend more time in the sunshine and I´ve found that the staff is much friendlier than those who work with the children. Additionally, I am able to read them books (the children don´t have the attention span for it) and even get them to repeat a few words for me. They giggle when I make faces at them and move their stiff limbs.
While I endlessly circled the grounds yesterday pushing wheelchairs, I realized that God is challenging me to give attention to those that I want to ignore. Breaking up my time between both groups should be good for me, and I am looking forward to having another group to look forward to seeing.
I hold Jésus when we are in the playroom and is crying but I feel guilty because I don´t often go out of my way to be around him. Once, when I was the only person who noticed his dirty diaper, I tried to change him, but it was so complicated because of the tube and his size that a worker had to take over. For a few days afterwards, I felt depressed about the state of his life. Jésus makes me so uncomfortable and sad that I am able to get caught up in the needs of other children and forget about him.
On the whole, I have come to enjoy working with the children. At times, I am physically and emotionally exhausted by their demands and I get very frustrated by some of the policies in effect at the home. Still, after a few days away , I look forward seeing everyone again. I can count on certain things like taking camera photos with Vickie, holding newborn babies, and laughing at the toddler twins´ attempts to be picked up. (If I am carrying a child besides them, they will lead me toward an empty crib or highchair, gesturing me to put that child aside.) So, when I arrived at the home on Monday I felt disappointed when Sister told me I should start dividing my time between the children and the ¨girls,¨ and she sent me downstairs to work with the older group.
The ¨girls¨are a group of 12 women spanning in ages from 18 to 40, who are severely disabled. Most are wheelchair-bound and can´t speak. While some can walk, a few are even more deformed than Jésus. They spend their days sitting, drooling and occasionally babbling, wailing and laughing. Because they can´t keep their heads straight, their hair is styled in pigtails in order to keep it out of their faces. It is ironic to see grown women wearing multiple brightly- coloured and cartoonishly-decorated ponytail holders in their hair because it´s a look associated with little girls who are able to run around happily.
When I started working with the girls, I felt the same sort of uncertainty as to what to do with them as with the children because in either case they aren´t activities planned for them. It´s easier to know what to do the children because they always need something, while the ¨girls¨ can´t communicate. Additionally, the severity of their problems made me adverse toward reaching out to them in the same manner that I feel about Jésus.
I´ve been working with the ¨girls¨ for three days, and in the mornings I help comb their hair and push their wheelchairs into the sun. Then, I take them on walks and while some of them laugh and giggle while being pushed, it can be very tedious. Since I have been missing the gym, I´ve toward wheelchair walks into my personal work-out as I push and pull the chairs, spin them in circles and run while pushing.
Still, my mind tends to drift and I get somewhat philosophical. I wonder if it´s worth it for them to live lives where they get so little joy and if I am wasting my time by putting so much in to being with them. I try to think of how their lives could be better, but I don´t think even think an abundance of money or people around them could make a huge difference. I also contemplate how God got things so wrong and a world exists where this is the way people live. But then, I have to look at myself and ask why I feel an aversion to those who are most despondent and why I would feel more comfortable without them in the world.
It´s actually too much to think about and I´ve come to the conclusion that I am here to serve, they are the neediest, and therefore I´ll be with them. I understand why the Missionaries of Charity- who devote their lives to helping the neediest- spend so much time in prayer. They need to focus on Jesus and believe a better life exists for the sick, otherwise sadness would overwhelm them.
There are good things about being with the girls. I spend more time in the sunshine and I´ve found that the staff is much friendlier than those who work with the children. Additionally, I am able to read them books (the children don´t have the attention span for it) and even get them to repeat a few words for me. They giggle when I make faces at them and move their stiff limbs.
While I endlessly circled the grounds yesterday pushing wheelchairs, I realized that God is challenging me to give attention to those that I want to ignore. Breaking up my time between both groups should be good for me, and I am looking forward to having another group to look forward to seeing.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Día de Muertos
After a long trip home to Pittsburgh two years ago for Easter vacation, my dad picked me up from the airport, eager to spend time with me. I thought we might go out to eat or that he´d bring me to the house to see my mother, but instead we made a trip to a flower store to pick up carnations which we then took to my grandmother´s gravestone. After saying a prayer there, we proceeded to walk through the cold, damp grounds and visit several other deceased relatives. The detour really wasn´t too surprising to me as oftentimes when we are in the car together, my Dad decides that a visit to the cemetery is in order. While most people in the United States prefer not to think about the dead, he goes out of his way for them, as he cantors at the funerals of strangers, loves to attend wakes, and of course, visits the cemetery several times each year.
This past weekend, I learned that my Dad would fit in here in Mexico, as the country celebrated Day of the Dead, the holiday in which it is said that it is easier for souls to come visit the living. Here, people put out offerings for their relatives such as bread, flowers, cigarettes and candy. For the past few weeks, the bakeries have been serving pan de muertes (sugary bread) and skull figurines are sold in shops. The holiday is based on indigenous traditions, but coincides with Catholic holy days honoring the deceased--All Saint´s Day and All Soul´s Day.
Jessica and I began Saturday with a trip to a graveyard to see the festivities. Outside the pantheon, vendors were selling flowers and food for double the normal price. Inside, families cleaned headstones, mariachi bands were playing at the foot of them, and there were floral displays everywhere. In Mexico City, coffins are on top of the ground and sometimes they are inside elaborate little rooms that also contain carpets, photos and statues.
Not having our own relatives to honor, we felt slightly out of place and didn´t stay for too long. That night we went to the parish, were a large paper cross had been placed on the grounds and topped with sawdust. Surprisingly, there were not too many people attending Mass, but apparently many people were traveling to visit relatives. We spent the night passing out candy to costumed children (Mexico has adopted that Halloween tradition for the Day of the Dead.) While I was warming up in the kitchen, chit-chatting with Father and Guilloto as we munched on pumpkin seeds, a friend called to invite Jess and I to the Zocalo (the city square) to see the offerings that different sections of the city had prepared.
Jessica asked Father his opinion about whether it would be worth it to stay up so late to see the offerings, since we had been planning on going anyway the following day. Sweetly, he misunderstood her and thought she was asking for permission, and said that since the two of us would be going together and picked up and driven home, it was okay. With his blessing, off we went with Ricardo (Javier´s brother), his friend Julio and Martha, who volunteers at the parish.
It was better that we ended up going at night because it added to the spooky ambiance of the displays of offerings. There was a bus of skeletons to honor dead people who died in traffic accidents, as well as various displays of food and flowers, and skeletons of children at play. People dressed in cloaks and white masks ran around having their picture taken (for a price we learned) and vendors sold corn, cotton candy and chips. After touring the city square, we ate at a crowded diner where various costumed persons came in and out, and waitresses sold bread of the dead by the trayful.
The next day was another busy day at church as the Day of the Dead is celebrated both November 1 and 2. (For children and adults.) Again, we passed out more candy and at the end of theday, we had a ceremony in which the cross was dismantled. Unfortunately, as far as I know, none of my relatives paid me a visit. However, the Day of the Dead definitely made me appreciate the living who helped us celebrate the holiday. It also made me feel a little less homesick for people at home, because the holiday showed that no matter where someone is or how often you get to talk to them, you can always feel close to them.
This past weekend, I learned that my Dad would fit in here in Mexico, as the country celebrated Day of the Dead, the holiday in which it is said that it is easier for souls to come visit the living. Here, people put out offerings for their relatives such as bread, flowers, cigarettes and candy. For the past few weeks, the bakeries have been serving pan de muertes (sugary bread) and skull figurines are sold in shops. The holiday is based on indigenous traditions, but coincides with Catholic holy days honoring the deceased--All Saint´s Day and All Soul´s Day.
Jessica and I began Saturday with a trip to a graveyard to see the festivities. Outside the pantheon, vendors were selling flowers and food for double the normal price. Inside, families cleaned headstones, mariachi bands were playing at the foot of them, and there were floral displays everywhere. In Mexico City, coffins are on top of the ground and sometimes they are inside elaborate little rooms that also contain carpets, photos and statues.
Not having our own relatives to honor, we felt slightly out of place and didn´t stay for too long. That night we went to the parish, were a large paper cross had been placed on the grounds and topped with sawdust. Surprisingly, there were not too many people attending Mass, but apparently many people were traveling to visit relatives. We spent the night passing out candy to costumed children (Mexico has adopted that Halloween tradition for the Day of the Dead.) While I was warming up in the kitchen, chit-chatting with Father and Guilloto as we munched on pumpkin seeds, a friend called to invite Jess and I to the Zocalo (the city square) to see the offerings that different sections of the city had prepared.
Jessica asked Father his opinion about whether it would be worth it to stay up so late to see the offerings, since we had been planning on going anyway the following day. Sweetly, he misunderstood her and thought she was asking for permission, and said that since the two of us would be going together and picked up and driven home, it was okay. With his blessing, off we went with Ricardo (Javier´s brother), his friend Julio and Martha, who volunteers at the parish.
It was better that we ended up going at night because it added to the spooky ambiance of the displays of offerings. There was a bus of skeletons to honor dead people who died in traffic accidents, as well as various displays of food and flowers, and skeletons of children at play. People dressed in cloaks and white masks ran around having their picture taken (for a price we learned) and vendors sold corn, cotton candy and chips. After touring the city square, we ate at a crowded diner where various costumed persons came in and out, and waitresses sold bread of the dead by the trayful.
The next day was another busy day at church as the Day of the Dead is celebrated both November 1 and 2. (For children and adults.) Again, we passed out more candy and at the end of theday, we had a ceremony in which the cross was dismantled. Unfortunately, as far as I know, none of my relatives paid me a visit. However, the Day of the Dead definitely made me appreciate the living who helped us celebrate the holiday. It also made me feel a little less homesick for people at home, because the holiday showed that no matter where someone is or how often you get to talk to them, you can always feel close to them.
Tricks and Treats
Before coming to Mexico, the last time I had either carved a pumpkin or passed out candy to trick-or-treaters was at least ten years ago. The last two years, I felt too tired from work to even go out for Halloween. This past Friday night though, I found myself elbow-deep in pumpkin guts and surrounded by party revelers after spending my Halloween afternoon distributing treats to children. Being in a foreign country as turned me into more of an American as I feel more inclined to celebrate the holidays and traditions of the United States.
My feeling of otherness began the Thursday before Halloween when I went to run errands in preparation for the holiday. First stop was the marketplace where I bought small toys, plastic pumpkins and whole-wheat cookies that I later passed out to the kids at work. I had a feeling that I was being overcharged for certain things, but language prevented me from bargaining with the vendors. In a sort of reverse colonialism (the white people who originally came to the Americas sold the natives cheap trinkets in exchange for their land,) Jessica confirmed that I had in fact been ripped off.
No matter, I had the wine that I had bought for the parish party we were to throw to console myself with. Going to the liquor store was an adventure as the shop attendants were eager to show off there English skills to me. (You can´t actually enter a liquor store around here because they are behind bars, so I had to stand on the street to place an order.) Disturbingly, there was a drunk guy drinking in front of the licqour store spoke enough English to ask me where I was from, my age, and exchange swear words with the attendants. After I completed the transaction, he followed me a little away from the store before deciding not to stray to far from the liquor. His behavior didn´t really bother me, but the fact that he could speak better English intoxicated than I can speak Spanish is troubling.
Next stop was the fruit market where Jessica and I bought pumpkins. It took us a while to track down gourds suitable for carving, as most of the calabezas around here are green and oddly shaped. However, we found orange-ish pumpkins that cost five pesos per kilo from a pleasant man who spoke English. We later realized that we had paid 120 pesos for 18 kilos of pumpkins, and that once again we had taken advantage of, having been disarmed by the man´s friendly chatter that caused us not to pay attention to the scale. Apparently, the Halloween spirit has yet to permeate Mexico.
Except for at the parish, where everyone had been excited all week for the party. Father cooked pasta with salmon (because he knows I like fish) and served red wine (goes without saying). Jessica and I successfully cut and gutted our pumpkins and the whole table took a turn carving them. I roasted the seeds, and I felt a little bit more at home because I was allowed to do the dishes. (There in no dishwasher at the parish and typically when I try to wash dishes I am shewed away. My former roommates would be shocked to see how I often I plead with the church ladies to be allowed to clean up.)
After our pumpkins were lit, Jessica and I returned back to the casa were we wrote the names of our relatives next to the offering she had prepared for Día de los Muertos , the November 1 and 2 holiday whereby the non-living supposedly pay their relatives a visit. The next day, as I roamed the streets tired and worn from the night before, I wasn´t sure if the stares I got were because I am an American, or if people were mistaking me for a a visiting soul.
My feeling of otherness began the Thursday before Halloween when I went to run errands in preparation for the holiday. First stop was the marketplace where I bought small toys, plastic pumpkins and whole-wheat cookies that I later passed out to the kids at work. I had a feeling that I was being overcharged for certain things, but language prevented me from bargaining with the vendors. In a sort of reverse colonialism (the white people who originally came to the Americas sold the natives cheap trinkets in exchange for their land,) Jessica confirmed that I had in fact been ripped off.
No matter, I had the wine that I had bought for the parish party we were to throw to console myself with. Going to the liquor store was an adventure as the shop attendants were eager to show off there English skills to me. (You can´t actually enter a liquor store around here because they are behind bars, so I had to stand on the street to place an order.) Disturbingly, there was a drunk guy drinking in front of the licqour store spoke enough English to ask me where I was from, my age, and exchange swear words with the attendants. After I completed the transaction, he followed me a little away from the store before deciding not to stray to far from the liquor. His behavior didn´t really bother me, but the fact that he could speak better English intoxicated than I can speak Spanish is troubling.
Next stop was the fruit market where Jessica and I bought pumpkins. It took us a while to track down gourds suitable for carving, as most of the calabezas around here are green and oddly shaped. However, we found orange-ish pumpkins that cost five pesos per kilo from a pleasant man who spoke English. We later realized that we had paid 120 pesos for 18 kilos of pumpkins, and that once again we had taken advantage of, having been disarmed by the man´s friendly chatter that caused us not to pay attention to the scale. Apparently, the Halloween spirit has yet to permeate Mexico.
Except for at the parish, where everyone had been excited all week for the party. Father cooked pasta with salmon (because he knows I like fish) and served red wine (goes without saying). Jessica and I successfully cut and gutted our pumpkins and the whole table took a turn carving them. I roasted the seeds, and I felt a little bit more at home because I was allowed to do the dishes. (There in no dishwasher at the parish and typically when I try to wash dishes I am shewed away. My former roommates would be shocked to see how I often I plead with the church ladies to be allowed to clean up.)
After our pumpkins were lit, Jessica and I returned back to the casa were we wrote the names of our relatives next to the offering she had prepared for Día de los Muertos , the November 1 and 2 holiday whereby the non-living supposedly pay their relatives a visit. The next day, as I roamed the streets tired and worn from the night before, I wasn´t sure if the stares I got were because I am an American, or if people were mistaking me for a a visiting soul.
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