I was never a Catholic schoolgirl, but I`m familiar with enough pop culture (and family stories) that when a nun barks an order at me, I get a little frightened. Such was the case late Monday afternoon at work-- I was walking outside with Marisol when Sister Maria called over to me, told me to put Marisol to bed and to``Wait for me here.``
I did as she said, thinking that she would do something like give me a copy of papal document to study or ask me to clean a shrine. In the back of my mind, I was worried that she would reprimand me for wearing torn jeans or for chatting to long with a male volunteer.
``Let`s go,`` she said when she came over to me, and to my surprise we walked outside of convent grounds.
``Where are we going?`` I asked.
``We have to cross the street,``
``Yes, but were are we going?``
``It`s so dangerous here, I don`t coming here alone,`` she remarked as we began going down a steep hill in a sketchy part of town. ``There are drug addicts everywhere. One of the ladies from my Friday group died and they called me. It`s a sad story—she lived in a beautiful house but her daughter fell in love with a drug addict and moved into one of those tin shanties.It was too much on her heart and blood pressure``
``We`re going to a funeral?``
``I want to pray,`` she said taking out her rosary. ``Should we do it in English, or Spanish so you can learn?
``Spanish,`` I said, so that I could learn and so that I could avoid a lecture on the fact that I don`t have many prayers memorized in English.
We passed by Lupita (Sister said there was no time to talk with her) and other drug users and arrived at a home at the bottom of Pueblo Nuevo, very close to where the Sisters of the Incarnate Word live. I realized that I had actually been to the house before, when I was visiting various infirmed people with Sister Angelita last November.
We went inside a beautiful home that seems out of place for Santa Fe. Inside was one of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word as well as Dona Mari, an older lady that Jess and I often visit who is also part of Sister Maria`s Friday group. Everybody was wondering when Padre Salvador would show up to say Mass. It seems that all the circles I run in are closely linked together.
In front of the coffin, a relative of the deceased began wailing that God does`t exist. Sister Maria took her away to talk with her and I sat next to Jackie, a physically handicapped girl whom I had met when visiting with Sister Angelita. She was very shaken up but able to say that she remembered me. Soon Sister Maria returned and led everyone in a Rosary—pausing to tell us to slow down and listen to God.
Then Sister Maria left with another nun of the same name for some sort of sisterly business and two women came over to comfort Jackie. Which left me alone and funeral crashing.
A handsome man came offered me food several times and I didn`t eat but watched him pass out plates of spaghetti. One young woman was sitting (and occasionally giggling) with who I think was the cousin of the host and said to him ``Gracias pero no guapo, cariño, hermoso.`` So from my vantage point, funerals for older people in Mexico are like those in the United States—for certain parts of the room, it`s the worst experience of their lives, but for others, it`s an excuse to flirt and eat.
I left with Sister Maria soon after we returned—she was in a hurry and I ran to catch up with her after saying goodbyes to the people I knew. As we walked, she showed me her moist hands and said that she had received a golden glistening from the Virgin Maria while praying the Rosary.
We stopped several times as we walked up the hill—cathecism students said hello to her (she pointed out the ones who are bad in Mass to me) and we paused because she was tired. She often walked backwards, staring at the mountains and said that looking at the beauty gave her the strength to keep going.
Once we reached the convent, she thanked me profusely for coming along with her, gave me an apple she didn`t want and said maybe I could come on visits with her more often as she needs someone to go out with. And I am looking forward to those outings because despite the awkward moments, I love that I am collecting experiences here.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Vamos!
I had 2.5 goals before running the half marathon today--I wanted to finish and to run the whole way without walking, and I was half hoping to finish in less than two and half hours. I am happy to say that all of my goals came through today and I am feeling exhausted (in a good way) after running all through Mexico City.
Lisa and I left our house at 6:15 in order to get to the Zocola where the race began. She started two hours earlier than me as she run the complete marathon. While waiting, I drank water, applied sunscreen, stretched and made multiple trips to the bathroom. (In true Mexico fashion there was no toilet paper in the port-a-pottys so earlier on, Lisa and had I snagged napkins from 7-11.)
Lisa began the race with very few people as the start times for marathon runners were stunted by expected finishing times. However, everyone running the half-marathon began at the same time ,so my starting line was flooded with people. I was chatting with a man next to who had spent a few years in Canada when I realized (during what I thought was a warm-up trot) that the race had begun without me knowing.
The first five kilometers were difficult and I started talking to myself (in my head) in order to get through it. My thoughts ranged from the divine to gutter. I prayed the Hail Mary and then told myself --''If you can make it through 13 (insert curse word) months in this country you can make it through less than three hours of running.'' I also tried to translate signs and the conversations of people around me.
The course was all on roads and along the way I recognized places I had been before-mostly in the vicinity of visa offices and convents. Part of the run was through Chapultepec a big park that many people have been talking about, and it was nice to be surrounded by trees.
Along the way people cheered and there was music and bands. Water and Gatorade were passed out along with food such as chocolate candy, limes and bananas (which was quite dangerous as everyone threw their peels on the ground. I slipped and imagined someone else falling cartoonishly over.)
I told myself that once I made it through eleven kilometers the rest would be easy as I would be half-way there. That helped me make it through it though I had stomach pains and sore feet. I pretended that I was actually running a marathon and that I had already completed half of it, so that made things get easier.
At the end of the race, while I was stretching in the finishing area, a journalist asked if he could interview me. I wasn't feeling up to speaking Spanish, nor was I looking great, but since I wrote for my college newspaper I know how hard it can be to find people willing to be interviewed for things. Thus I answered some basic questions and let him take my picture for a Mexico City running magazine.
Harder than the race was waiting in line to pick up my things. I started getting chills and felt queasy in the stomach and the line seemed endless. A Good Samaritan lent me here jacket and held my place for me until Jessica, Melissa, Ricardo and Marcos showed up with more clothing and offered to collect my things.
As for Lisa, I told her if she felt twice as bad as me after, it must be pretty bad. She finished the marathon but with a higher time than her Chicago marathon probably due to lack of training. However, we're both feeling happy but sleepy so on that note, I'm off to bed. I definitely won't be running tomorrow and though I told myself during the race I never had to run for the rest my life after it, I might have a few miles left in me later on this week.
Lisa and I left our house at 6:15 in order to get to the Zocola where the race began. She started two hours earlier than me as she run the complete marathon. While waiting, I drank water, applied sunscreen, stretched and made multiple trips to the bathroom. (In true Mexico fashion there was no toilet paper in the port-a-pottys so earlier on, Lisa and had I snagged napkins from 7-11.)
Lisa began the race with very few people as the start times for marathon runners were stunted by expected finishing times. However, everyone running the half-marathon began at the same time ,so my starting line was flooded with people. I was chatting with a man next to who had spent a few years in Canada when I realized (during what I thought was a warm-up trot) that the race had begun without me knowing.
The first five kilometers were difficult and I started talking to myself (in my head) in order to get through it. My thoughts ranged from the divine to gutter. I prayed the Hail Mary and then told myself --''If you can make it through 13 (insert curse word) months in this country you can make it through less than three hours of running.'' I also tried to translate signs and the conversations of people around me.
The course was all on roads and along the way I recognized places I had been before-mostly in the vicinity of visa offices and convents. Part of the run was through Chapultepec a big park that many people have been talking about, and it was nice to be surrounded by trees.
Along the way people cheered and there was music and bands. Water and Gatorade were passed out along with food such as chocolate candy, limes and bananas (which was quite dangerous as everyone threw their peels on the ground. I slipped and imagined someone else falling cartoonishly over.)
I told myself that once I made it through eleven kilometers the rest would be easy as I would be half-way there. That helped me make it through it though I had stomach pains and sore feet. I pretended that I was actually running a marathon and that I had already completed half of it, so that made things get easier.
At the end of the race, while I was stretching in the finishing area, a journalist asked if he could interview me. I wasn't feeling up to speaking Spanish, nor was I looking great, but since I wrote for my college newspaper I know how hard it can be to find people willing to be interviewed for things. Thus I answered some basic questions and let him take my picture for a Mexico City running magazine.
Harder than the race was waiting in line to pick up my things. I started getting chills and felt queasy in the stomach and the line seemed endless. A Good Samaritan lent me here jacket and held my place for me until Jessica, Melissa, Ricardo and Marcos showed up with more clothing and offered to collect my things.
As for Lisa, I told her if she felt twice as bad as me after, it must be pretty bad. She finished the marathon but with a higher time than her Chicago marathon probably due to lack of training. However, we're both feeling happy but sleepy so on that note, I'm off to bed. I definitely won't be running tomorrow and though I told myself during the race I never had to run for the rest my life after it, I might have a few miles left in me later on this week.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Yearly Check-In
It's been over a year since I arrived in Mexico which means the time I have left to stay here is less than the time I have been her. Though some days I long for seeing my family, the change of seasons, speaking English (and Thai food) I also realize this is a unique experience and I want to soak up as much of life here as I can. Megan once remarked that as I became more active here my blogging would slow which is why my posts have been faulty over the summer. Here are the highlights of the past month:
Tengo Ganas
I have been taking Spanish lessons on and off since February but the language has really started clicking during my recent courses. In June I began taking classes at the Iberio, a university in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. I was disappointed that I was only placed in level two but found that the course contained a whole slew of tenses I had yet to encounter. The university went on summer break, and when I entered another course in September, I was bumped up to level five. The said to me 'tienes ganas pora aprender' 'which basically means that because I am eager to understand the language, she thought I could handle the jump.
I can keep up with my classmates (a mixture of foreign exchange students from Japan, Germany and France) though I am not sure if I could have used a review of all tenses rather than leaning the subjunctive tense which we are concentrating on now. However, it's good for me to hear a solid two hours of Spanish spoken slowly each day, no matter what I am learning. I am making an effort to spend more time at the parish listening to Spanish and have one-on- one conversations with people in Spanish even if they speak English. At work, in lieu of singing American nursery songs to the girls, I have been reading to them from my Spanish as workplace.
My language ability has definitely approved though I still get frustrated as I often understand everything in class but miss out on at least half the conversation. in group situations People often tell me that my classes are a waste of money and that I should just learn by hanging out in the street and conversing, but without my classes I wouldn't be able to understand the advice.
Getting to class is interesting. I wait on the street until I can climb on a bus that is not so crowded that people are hanging out of it. Then I have an uncomfortable ride to Santa Fe on a bus mostly filled with people who are likely working low-paid jobs in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. But my classes are filled with either foreign exchange students who are seeing even more of the world or wives of foreign businessmen who have jobs in Mexico City and are chauffeured into the university.
Tuvimos Fiestas
Like last year, September was a month a celebrating, though this time, for us, things started up in August. A week after the Feast of the Assumption was Padre Salvador's birthday. Before the party, Jess and I helped out with the preparations--I picked the bad parts off of corn kernels while Jess shaved a pig's head--pork and corn are key ingredients in pozole, a Mexican soup. A whole pork had been purchased for the party and though Jess was as initially weirded out by it, she soon took delight in pointing out its` heart and ears and putting its` tail near her own behind. I attempted to help pull apart chicken but then decided I would better serve the situation by keeping Padre company away from the preparation. The party went well and was day of dancing, tequila and (for me) muchos friojoles.
A few days later the new missionaries, Lisa and Melissa arrived. We had a big Mexican-themed party for them a few days after they got here. It has been interesting to see things through their eyes and I realize have pretty much adjusted to really difficult things about being here--language frustrations, getting sick more easily, the sadness of my workplace, not being able to communicate with loved ones easily and constant attention on the streets. Knowing that I have gone through the hard parts makes me glad I committed to a two-years, especially now that I have two more fantastic girls to hang out with. (Interestingly enough the arrival of two more cute, young American girls has coincided with an increase of young Mexican men giving us invitations and hanging around our house and we've been doing more socializing with people beyond our parish group.)
Last weekend, we went out twice in a row, partially in anticipation of my birthday. On Friday, we went to a hipster bar in the center of Mexico City where everyone was dressed in black and a live band played a mixture of Mexican favorites and American sock hop music. The next place we went to a bar in Cococayn called The Attic, which was like an attic as we had to climb up and stoop down in order to sit in a wooden bar area crowded with other beer drinkers. Sunday was my birthday and my roommates surprised me with a treasure hunt in which they hid presents in various places throughout the house and gave me illustrated clues toe help. (I don't know if I'll ever celebrate another birthday whereby I'll have such easy access to a chapel and a roof.) We went to Mass (a little late) and I was escorted to the front to sit in a chair of honor. In honor of the parish`s 476th anniversary many people wore indigenous garb and people stood at the altar holding corn stalks. After the service we had a lunch featuring what constitutes my idea of a party--spinach, nopales (cactus), red wine, and a special vegan cake that Jess made for me from a mix my mother sent from the States. In the evening we had more guests over, and all the partying made me feel better about reaching my late-20s.
On September 15, we went to the Zocola to celebrate Mexican Independence Day and hear the grita. (When the President comes out and yells Viva Mexico and Viva (name of various Mexican hero.) We got to the square about 20 minutes before the event started and were literally pushed into line so that we could pass through metal detectors. Inside we saw the President and fireworks and were drenched by both rain and a soapy, foam mixture that spectators were spraying. We had celebrated Independence Day in the parish last year (for many people the day is commemorated in their houses with the family,) and while that was fun, it was interesting to there the grita that everyone has been talking about.
Tengo Conejos
During my first few months in Mexico, it was pretty hard to stay in shape. I couldn't force myself to get in a good work-out with just my jump-rope. For a while, I tried climbing up and down a huge nearby hill but realized that as it's filled with cars, pollution and sketchy guys, the safety risks of using as it as a workout tool have outweighed its benefits.
Over the past few , I have been going to work-out at the University's gym and I have also been (for lack of a better word) trembling (Whereby I spend 10-minute sessions on machines that vibrate and burn 500 calories during this period.) It sounds hokey but I read an article saying that in Europe it's the rage and it really works.( The owners were smart for starting the machines as obesity is a problem in Santa Fe and it's difficult to find ways to exercise.) With the arrival of the new missionaries I have been introduced to even more ways to stay fit. I tag along with Lisa and Melissa to Zumba (and bounce out of rhythm to salsa-type music while doing aerobics.) Lisa is a marathon runner and I told her if she did the Mexico City Marathon next week, I would do the half-marathon. We have both signed up for it and found a nearby park to go running at. That means that I have gone running for the first time in over a year (I put in three sessions that each went over an hour.) I am quite sore and am only hoping to finish the race as I have never run more than 10 miles at a time in my whole life. However, Lisa is inspiring as she not only cheers me on during runs but told me that she used to run for ten miles a day in Chicago.
Nos Vemos
I am going to wrap this up by giving a quick synopsis of my day. In the morning, Lisa and I went running at a park at which some sort of presentation was taking place complete with a helicopter, police officers and ambulance truck. I couldn't quite figure out what was happening despite running into and chatting with some Missionaries of Charity (in their white saris) and asking them what was taking place. Still we run an circles and I was nearly blown away by the copter taking off.
Later we went to Mass where a burro with purple legs was grazing by church. (Some sort of medication was applied to it's legs. After Mass we attended a lunch commemorating the year-anniversary of a tragic event of a family of friends from the parish and I awkwardly tried to make small talk with guests. Afterward, I went to a planning meeting for an upcoming retreat of our youth group (I could only understand half of it and was annoyed when my suggestion of serving fruit over potato chips as snacks was shot down.) Then, I went to the parish kitchen and hung out with the church ladies. I drank several servings of tibeticos, a bacteria drink that ferments in the parish kitchen that was allegedly first brewed by Mother Theresa and has amazing healing properties.
Right now, I am in the parish library typing. The church handyman followed me in here and is giggling without apparent reason while waiting to walk me home. I told him he needs to read or listen to music instead of sitting and thinking all the time and he replied that he never thinks. I am both proud of myself for having a conversation in Spanish and slightly uncomfortable with his presence. But I can bicker with him without having to pretend I think he`s altogether right. Which is why I like life here--it is different and often surreal but I can recognize and laugh at the absurdities while learning to appreciate them.
Tengo Ganas
I have been taking Spanish lessons on and off since February but the language has really started clicking during my recent courses. In June I began taking classes at the Iberio, a university in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. I was disappointed that I was only placed in level two but found that the course contained a whole slew of tenses I had yet to encounter. The university went on summer break, and when I entered another course in September, I was bumped up to level five. The said to me 'tienes ganas pora aprender' 'which basically means that because I am eager to understand the language, she thought I could handle the jump.
I can keep up with my classmates (a mixture of foreign exchange students from Japan, Germany and France) though I am not sure if I could have used a review of all tenses rather than leaning the subjunctive tense which we are concentrating on now. However, it's good for me to hear a solid two hours of Spanish spoken slowly each day, no matter what I am learning. I am making an effort to spend more time at the parish listening to Spanish and have one-on- one conversations with people in Spanish even if they speak English. At work, in lieu of singing American nursery songs to the girls, I have been reading to them from my Spanish as workplace.
My language ability has definitely approved though I still get frustrated as I often understand everything in class but miss out on at least half the conversation. in group situations People often tell me that my classes are a waste of money and that I should just learn by hanging out in the street and conversing, but without my classes I wouldn't be able to understand the advice.
Getting to class is interesting. I wait on the street until I can climb on a bus that is not so crowded that people are hanging out of it. Then I have an uncomfortable ride to Santa Fe on a bus mostly filled with people who are likely working low-paid jobs in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. But my classes are filled with either foreign exchange students who are seeing even more of the world or wives of foreign businessmen who have jobs in Mexico City and are chauffeured into the university.
Tuvimos Fiestas
Like last year, September was a month a celebrating, though this time, for us, things started up in August. A week after the Feast of the Assumption was Padre Salvador's birthday. Before the party, Jess and I helped out with the preparations--I picked the bad parts off of corn kernels while Jess shaved a pig's head--pork and corn are key ingredients in pozole, a Mexican soup. A whole pork had been purchased for the party and though Jess was as initially weirded out by it, she soon took delight in pointing out its` heart and ears and putting its` tail near her own behind. I attempted to help pull apart chicken but then decided I would better serve the situation by keeping Padre company away from the preparation. The party went well and was day of dancing, tequila and (for me) muchos friojoles.
A few days later the new missionaries, Lisa and Melissa arrived. We had a big Mexican-themed party for them a few days after they got here. It has been interesting to see things through their eyes and I realize have pretty much adjusted to really difficult things about being here--language frustrations, getting sick more easily, the sadness of my workplace, not being able to communicate with loved ones easily and constant attention on the streets. Knowing that I have gone through the hard parts makes me glad I committed to a two-years, especially now that I have two more fantastic girls to hang out with. (Interestingly enough the arrival of two more cute, young American girls has coincided with an increase of young Mexican men giving us invitations and hanging around our house and we've been doing more socializing with people beyond our parish group.)
Last weekend, we went out twice in a row, partially in anticipation of my birthday. On Friday, we went to a hipster bar in the center of Mexico City where everyone was dressed in black and a live band played a mixture of Mexican favorites and American sock hop music. The next place we went to a bar in Cococayn called The Attic, which was like an attic as we had to climb up and stoop down in order to sit in a wooden bar area crowded with other beer drinkers. Sunday was my birthday and my roommates surprised me with a treasure hunt in which they hid presents in various places throughout the house and gave me illustrated clues toe help. (I don't know if I'll ever celebrate another birthday whereby I'll have such easy access to a chapel and a roof.) We went to Mass (a little late) and I was escorted to the front to sit in a chair of honor. In honor of the parish`s 476th anniversary many people wore indigenous garb and people stood at the altar holding corn stalks. After the service we had a lunch featuring what constitutes my idea of a party--spinach, nopales (cactus), red wine, and a special vegan cake that Jess made for me from a mix my mother sent from the States. In the evening we had more guests over, and all the partying made me feel better about reaching my late-20s.
On September 15, we went to the Zocola to celebrate Mexican Independence Day and hear the grita. (When the President comes out and yells Viva Mexico and Viva (name of various Mexican hero.) We got to the square about 20 minutes before the event started and were literally pushed into line so that we could pass through metal detectors. Inside we saw the President and fireworks and were drenched by both rain and a soapy, foam mixture that spectators were spraying. We had celebrated Independence Day in the parish last year (for many people the day is commemorated in their houses with the family,) and while that was fun, it was interesting to there the grita that everyone has been talking about.
Tengo Conejos
During my first few months in Mexico, it was pretty hard to stay in shape. I couldn't force myself to get in a good work-out with just my jump-rope. For a while, I tried climbing up and down a huge nearby hill but realized that as it's filled with cars, pollution and sketchy guys, the safety risks of using as it as a workout tool have outweighed its benefits.
Over the past few , I have been going to work-out at the University's gym and I have also been (for lack of a better word) trembling (Whereby I spend 10-minute sessions on machines that vibrate and burn 500 calories during this period.) It sounds hokey but I read an article saying that in Europe it's the rage and it really works.( The owners were smart for starting the machines as obesity is a problem in Santa Fe and it's difficult to find ways to exercise.) With the arrival of the new missionaries I have been introduced to even more ways to stay fit. I tag along with Lisa and Melissa to Zumba (and bounce out of rhythm to salsa-type music while doing aerobics.) Lisa is a marathon runner and I told her if she did the Mexico City Marathon next week, I would do the half-marathon. We have both signed up for it and found a nearby park to go running at. That means that I have gone running for the first time in over a year (I put in three sessions that each went over an hour.) I am quite sore and am only hoping to finish the race as I have never run more than 10 miles at a time in my whole life. However, Lisa is inspiring as she not only cheers me on during runs but told me that she used to run for ten miles a day in Chicago.
Nos Vemos
I am going to wrap this up by giving a quick synopsis of my day. In the morning, Lisa and I went running at a park at which some sort of presentation was taking place complete with a helicopter, police officers and ambulance truck. I couldn't quite figure out what was happening despite running into and chatting with some Missionaries of Charity (in their white saris) and asking them what was taking place. Still we run an circles and I was nearly blown away by the copter taking off.
Later we went to Mass where a burro with purple legs was grazing by church. (Some sort of medication was applied to it's legs. After Mass we attended a lunch commemorating the year-anniversary of a tragic event of a family of friends from the parish and I awkwardly tried to make small talk with guests. Afterward, I went to a planning meeting for an upcoming retreat of our youth group (I could only understand half of it and was annoyed when my suggestion of serving fruit over potato chips as snacks was shot down.) Then, I went to the parish kitchen and hung out with the church ladies. I drank several servings of tibeticos, a bacteria drink that ferments in the parish kitchen that was allegedly first brewed by Mother Theresa and has amazing healing properties.
Right now, I am in the parish library typing. The church handyman followed me in here and is giggling without apparent reason while waiting to walk me home. I told him he needs to read or listen to music instead of sitting and thinking all the time and he replied that he never thinks. I am both proud of myself for having a conversation in Spanish and slightly uncomfortable with his presence. But I can bicker with him without having to pretend I think he`s altogether right. Which is why I like life here--it is different and often surreal but I can recognize and laugh at the absurdities while learning to appreciate them.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Mi Madre!
As religious and cultural traditions are pretty intermingled here, I am often not sure whether I am experiencing a Mexican or Catholic custom. Such was the case on Friday evening, when I went to Mass to see the Dormition of the Virgin Maria.
It was the eve of the Assumption of Maria, the day that celebrates Maria's` entrance into heaven. In Catholic teaching, there is debate as to whether it was her just soul that entered or if God raised up her whole body. For Mexicans, there is little doubt that she went cuerpo intact. Thus she is put to sleep the night before the Assumption (the Dormition) and she is raised up while sleeping.
As the Dormition was something new for Jess and me, we were pretty excited to go. However, right before Mass was to begin, we had to wait out a massive downpour. Once things settled down, I donned flip-flops, we both rolled up our pants legs and we waded through the streets of Santa Fe in order to see the Reina.
As so happens during major religious feasts, the atmosphere in Santa Fe was the opposite of what the cause of celebration would imply. The Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe was full of chaos and revelry and Good Friday was an excuse to excessively eat and drink. On the day when one is meant to reflect on the purity and chastity of a woman, a dozen men stood in the market place street catcalling females.
``Fire,`` one man called to us, which was a cue for the rest to try and sing the lyrics of a song and fail, and instead slur ``Babies lights my fires.``
``If you`re going to speak in English, learn to speak it correctly,`` Jess shouted at them in perfect Spanish, allowing me to walk away smugly. (If I had tried to yell the same thing in Spanish, it would have come out like `When you speak English, tried talk correctly` and the effect would have been lost.)
We plodded past them and into a church gone dark--not because it was bedtime, but due to a power outage. Aside from a bed surrounded by apples and angel statues in front of the altar, Mass was typical. Afterward, Padre instructed various baptism classes to go to different rooms and neither Jess or I could figure out what big thing was going to happen--usually for these types of events the statue of the Virgin is paraded around town after Mass.
While I was changing out of my flip-flops in anticipation of going outside, Jess and our friends seemed to disappear on me. Now, I hadn`t heard any instructions, the church was dark, and lately I have been wearing pair of glasses with an outdated prescription as I`m awaiting a new shipment of contacts. Sensory-deprived, I stumbled out of church (the Friday nights I spent leaving bars in such a manner are a lifetime ago) and began looking for the Virgin. In the middle of the marketplace street, I stopped to telephone Jess but she didn`t pick up. Contemplating what to do, I looked up to encounter of the previously-mentioned drunk men who (not looking for a virgin) offered ``Drink, Guerita?``
Thus was the cue for the rest of the men to begin shouting at me. It reminded me of a cartoon scene whereby someone seemingly finds safety in a cave, only to see one set of yellow, glowing eyes , and than notices about 20 more wolves waiting to pounce on them.
``Baby, baby, I love you,`` they all screamed in English. I didn`t feel nervous but it was rather embarrassing to be in the middle of a big scene. It was like sitting outside at the parish--the dozen dogs that Padre keeps there always crawl all over me because Jess is nice to them and they smell her scent on me--and it attracts unwanted attention.
I hurried out of the marketplace and looked around a few blocks before heading back to the church. Apparently Jess had never left and the Virgin had only been taken off the altar. She was put in a special room, her garments were changed and she was laid in bed. A group of parishioners stayed up all night keeping vigil over the statue. I left early for my own personal dormition.
The next day, I woke up at five a.m. to the sound of fireworks. Jess and I headed back to church, where eight Virgin statues had been placed on the altar. Overnight, people had taken out their Virgin statues from roadside shrines, changed their clothes and brought them to church. For three hours various mariachi and rondella bands played to them in a crowded church. Outside, sweet bread and coffee was served. I don`t know if it`s common in other Catholic countries to give such attention to Virgin statues, but I do think Mattel would be highly successful were it to market a Virgin Maria Barbie in Mexico.
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Having witnessed the glorification of motherhood, it was only fitting that in the afternoon I experienced its pitfalls. After a long morning nap, I went to work at the convent, where residents, nuns and others where outside for Mass. I was upstairs visiting with the babies when Sister Estrella came to me with Carolina (half of a set of developmentally-delayed twins who can` t talk yet,) who was kicking and crying.
`` Here, if you want to take her somewhere you can,`` said Sister Estrella. ``Take her.``
``Oh...So, do you want me to take her to Mass?" I asked.
``Mass or wherever,`` Sister shrugged. ``Just take her somewhere.`` We each took a hand of Carolinas` and she jumped downstairs and outside.
(Some background-- a few weeks ago Carolina`s twin began attending daycare while Carolina remains at home, restless. Carolina can`t go because she is aggressive and overactive if she were to attend, the nuns are afraid that she would hurt the other children or be disruptive. On Friday, I asked Sister if Carolina could to the guardaria a few afternoons a week if I were accompany her. Sister Estrella had reservations about this, but did say I could probably take her out on walks or to the park. I hadn`t expected our outings to begin so quickly.)
Carolina sat through a minute of Mass before getting up to run around. I followed her closely, feeling as if I were being tested somehow. I took her a little further down the street, where a makeshift carnival was being set up and we looked at the games and rides.
Carolina was difficult-- she tugged and grabbed at games and toys. Even when I held her hand tightly, she would run up to strangers and wrap herself around them. I held her in my arms and she cried, squirmed and tried to climb onto strange woman. The only thing that made her calm and attentive was taking off my glasses and putting them on her face, which was unsafe for us both. Carolina is rather fair-skinned and as I clutched her and she wailed, people on the streets stared at us as if I were a really bad mother. I wondered how for the second time in less than 24 hours, I was part of another spectacle.
I wanted to bring her over to Sister Estrella and say ``Here, you can take her now,`` but I felt like it would be giving up to easily so I held on to her. It made me wonder what sort of mother I would be. With my own possessions, I am careless and tend to break and lose things and I have always worried I`d be like this with my own kids. However, being with Carolina made me think I`d be overprotective parent who would imagine harm at every corner. I wondered how she could be so fear less when there was so much danger awaiting her.
Eventually, Carolina got so fussy that I took her back to the convent grounds, and it was better because I could let her roam around. She found some sweet bread which she ate happily and slowly while sitting in my lap as we listened to choir music, rainfall and fireworks. That type of moment keeps motherhood in business.
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That evening, I attended Mass for the Feast of the Assumption, special because the bishop was there and Jessica`s children`s choir sang . At the end of Mass, Padre announced that a statue of the Virgin would be crowned eleven different times by people representing various community members. While representatives of nuns, church workers (Gallo did the honors in this group and drew the applause of a rock star) and families crowned the Virgin and said a few words, I watched nervously. Padre had mentioned something about either Jess or me participating in the Coronation of the Virgin, but I had figured Jess would handle it and it would take place during Sunday Mass.
However, Jess was way up in the choir loft and Padre saw me near the front of the church and asked me to crown the Virgin as a representative of missionaries. I have a certain amount of public speaking anxiety, so I was proud of myself for being able to muster up a few words in Spanish thanking the people for Santa Fe for their hospitality and for the presence of nuestra madre.
One of the nice things about this blog is that I was able to back at the blog entry I made at this time during Orientation. I wrote about how it was unusual for me to celebrate the Feast of the Assumption but that I anticipated doing even more out of the out of the ordinary things.
That has come to pass as I have found myself in unanticipated situations here. Though it may sound like I spend all my time struggling with small children and Spanish I have also witnessed a lot of cool things--this weekend for example was a huge celebration for the Assumption and I watched fireworks after Saturday Mass and Aztec dancers on Sunday. My difficult experiences here has been made easier because I have found some many people who have been loving and accepting.
Despite struggling to accept a different way of life and witnessing very sad situations, I still feel blessed to be here. I wrote last year that my goal was to make the most of things I didn`t expect. To a certain extent I have done that and I have to give myself credit for being able to take things that are (certainly in the case of small children) thrown at me. While day-to-day life presents a certain amount of stress, I hope that in the coming year I`ll be able to take what I`ve learned over the past year and better enjoy and appreciate the people around me.
It was the eve of the Assumption of Maria, the day that celebrates Maria's` entrance into heaven. In Catholic teaching, there is debate as to whether it was her just soul that entered or if God raised up her whole body. For Mexicans, there is little doubt that she went cuerpo intact. Thus she is put to sleep the night before the Assumption (the Dormition) and she is raised up while sleeping.
As the Dormition was something new for Jess and me, we were pretty excited to go. However, right before Mass was to begin, we had to wait out a massive downpour. Once things settled down, I donned flip-flops, we both rolled up our pants legs and we waded through the streets of Santa Fe in order to see the Reina.
As so happens during major religious feasts, the atmosphere in Santa Fe was the opposite of what the cause of celebration would imply. The Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe was full of chaos and revelry and Good Friday was an excuse to excessively eat and drink. On the day when one is meant to reflect on the purity and chastity of a woman, a dozen men stood in the market place street catcalling females.
``Fire,`` one man called to us, which was a cue for the rest to try and sing the lyrics of a song and fail, and instead slur ``Babies lights my fires.``
``If you`re going to speak in English, learn to speak it correctly,`` Jess shouted at them in perfect Spanish, allowing me to walk away smugly. (If I had tried to yell the same thing in Spanish, it would have come out like `When you speak English, tried talk correctly` and the effect would have been lost.)
We plodded past them and into a church gone dark--not because it was bedtime, but due to a power outage. Aside from a bed surrounded by apples and angel statues in front of the altar, Mass was typical. Afterward, Padre instructed various baptism classes to go to different rooms and neither Jess or I could figure out what big thing was going to happen--usually for these types of events the statue of the Virgin is paraded around town after Mass.
While I was changing out of my flip-flops in anticipation of going outside, Jess and our friends seemed to disappear on me. Now, I hadn`t heard any instructions, the church was dark, and lately I have been wearing pair of glasses with an outdated prescription as I`m awaiting a new shipment of contacts. Sensory-deprived, I stumbled out of church (the Friday nights I spent leaving bars in such a manner are a lifetime ago) and began looking for the Virgin. In the middle of the marketplace street, I stopped to telephone Jess but she didn`t pick up. Contemplating what to do, I looked up to encounter of the previously-mentioned drunk men who (not looking for a virgin) offered ``Drink, Guerita?``
Thus was the cue for the rest of the men to begin shouting at me. It reminded me of a cartoon scene whereby someone seemingly finds safety in a cave, only to see one set of yellow, glowing eyes , and than notices about 20 more wolves waiting to pounce on them.
``Baby, baby, I love you,`` they all screamed in English. I didn`t feel nervous but it was rather embarrassing to be in the middle of a big scene. It was like sitting outside at the parish--the dozen dogs that Padre keeps there always crawl all over me because Jess is nice to them and they smell her scent on me--and it attracts unwanted attention.
I hurried out of the marketplace and looked around a few blocks before heading back to the church. Apparently Jess had never left and the Virgin had only been taken off the altar. She was put in a special room, her garments were changed and she was laid in bed. A group of parishioners stayed up all night keeping vigil over the statue. I left early for my own personal dormition.
The next day, I woke up at five a.m. to the sound of fireworks. Jess and I headed back to church, where eight Virgin statues had been placed on the altar. Overnight, people had taken out their Virgin statues from roadside shrines, changed their clothes and brought them to church. For three hours various mariachi and rondella bands played to them in a crowded church. Outside, sweet bread and coffee was served. I don`t know if it`s common in other Catholic countries to give such attention to Virgin statues, but I do think Mattel would be highly successful were it to market a Virgin Maria Barbie in Mexico.
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Having witnessed the glorification of motherhood, it was only fitting that in the afternoon I experienced its pitfalls. After a long morning nap, I went to work at the convent, where residents, nuns and others where outside for Mass. I was upstairs visiting with the babies when Sister Estrella came to me with Carolina (half of a set of developmentally-delayed twins who can` t talk yet,) who was kicking and crying.
`` Here, if you want to take her somewhere you can,`` said Sister Estrella. ``Take her.``
``Oh...So, do you want me to take her to Mass?" I asked.
``Mass or wherever,`` Sister shrugged. ``Just take her somewhere.`` We each took a hand of Carolinas` and she jumped downstairs and outside.
(Some background-- a few weeks ago Carolina`s twin began attending daycare while Carolina remains at home, restless. Carolina can`t go because she is aggressive and overactive if she were to attend, the nuns are afraid that she would hurt the other children or be disruptive. On Friday, I asked Sister if Carolina could to the guardaria a few afternoons a week if I were accompany her. Sister Estrella had reservations about this, but did say I could probably take her out on walks or to the park. I hadn`t expected our outings to begin so quickly.)
Carolina sat through a minute of Mass before getting up to run around. I followed her closely, feeling as if I were being tested somehow. I took her a little further down the street, where a makeshift carnival was being set up and we looked at the games and rides.
Carolina was difficult-- she tugged and grabbed at games and toys. Even when I held her hand tightly, she would run up to strangers and wrap herself around them. I held her in my arms and she cried, squirmed and tried to climb onto strange woman. The only thing that made her calm and attentive was taking off my glasses and putting them on her face, which was unsafe for us both. Carolina is rather fair-skinned and as I clutched her and she wailed, people on the streets stared at us as if I were a really bad mother. I wondered how for the second time in less than 24 hours, I was part of another spectacle.
I wanted to bring her over to Sister Estrella and say ``Here, you can take her now,`` but I felt like it would be giving up to easily so I held on to her. It made me wonder what sort of mother I would be. With my own possessions, I am careless and tend to break and lose things and I have always worried I`d be like this with my own kids. However, being with Carolina made me think I`d be overprotective parent who would imagine harm at every corner. I wondered how she could be so fear less when there was so much danger awaiting her.
Eventually, Carolina got so fussy that I took her back to the convent grounds, and it was better because I could let her roam around. She found some sweet bread which she ate happily and slowly while sitting in my lap as we listened to choir music, rainfall and fireworks. That type of moment keeps motherhood in business.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That evening, I attended Mass for the Feast of the Assumption, special because the bishop was there and Jessica`s children`s choir sang . At the end of Mass, Padre announced that a statue of the Virgin would be crowned eleven different times by people representing various community members. While representatives of nuns, church workers (Gallo did the honors in this group and drew the applause of a rock star) and families crowned the Virgin and said a few words, I watched nervously. Padre had mentioned something about either Jess or me participating in the Coronation of the Virgin, but I had figured Jess would handle it and it would take place during Sunday Mass.
However, Jess was way up in the choir loft and Padre saw me near the front of the church and asked me to crown the Virgin as a representative of missionaries. I have a certain amount of public speaking anxiety, so I was proud of myself for being able to muster up a few words in Spanish thanking the people for Santa Fe for their hospitality and for the presence of nuestra madre.
One of the nice things about this blog is that I was able to back at the blog entry I made at this time during Orientation. I wrote about how it was unusual for me to celebrate the Feast of the Assumption but that I anticipated doing even more out of the out of the ordinary things.
That has come to pass as I have found myself in unanticipated situations here. Though it may sound like I spend all my time struggling with small children and Spanish I have also witnessed a lot of cool things--this weekend for example was a huge celebration for the Assumption and I watched fireworks after Saturday Mass and Aztec dancers on Sunday. My difficult experiences here has been made easier because I have found some many people who have been loving and accepting.
Despite struggling to accept a different way of life and witnessing very sad situations, I still feel blessed to be here. I wrote last year that my goal was to make the most of things I didn`t expect. To a certain extent I have done that and I have to give myself credit for being able to take things that are (certainly in the case of small children) thrown at me. While day-to-day life presents a certain amount of stress, I hope that in the coming year I`ll be able to take what I`ve learned over the past year and better enjoy and appreciate the people around me.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Ven Con Nosotros!
The title of this posting refers to the lyrics of one of the only religious songs (in Spanish) that I have memorized, due to the fact that I hear it so often . It goes Ven con nosotros a caminar, Santa Maria Ven and roughly translates to 'Come with us and walk, Saint Mary, come!'
Lately, Santa Maria has been doing a lot of walking with the people of Santa Fe. As I've mentioned before, the Virgin Maria is revered by most everyone here and the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe (commemorating the day in the 1500s when she appeared as indigenous women outside of Mexico City) is amongst biggest holidays of the year. I recently learned that locally the Feast of the Assumption of Mary is almost equally as significant due to the fact that our parish is named in honor of her.
This means that since the beginning of August there have been processions, fireworks and fiestas in her honor which are leading up to the August 15th feast day. Certain groups have their own special celebrations. The other day, a statue of the Virgin was displayed in the marketplace along with welcoming signs and flowers. As I was walking home from work that day (irritated by the noisy, daytime fireworks being set off), a woman whom I had never met before grabbed me asked me why I wasn`t taking part in the parade that was going to be had with the statue. She begrudgingly accepted that I couldn't go because I had a class to teach.
No matter. Santa Maria came to me, as a group of paraders dressed in white carried her statue past my home. They returned a half hour later, stopped in front of our chapel, and a woman more or less demanded that I open up its` doors. Trumpets and hornets were blasting, participants sang, and friends of ours went up on the roof to ring the church bells. Little children trooped in and out of our house to use the bathroom. It seems my frequent singing the song worked and Santa Maria (and her followers) walked to me.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How does it affect girls growing up in a country where there is such devotion to a figure whose three most well-known qualities are that she is a virgin, she is a mother and she is without sin? I began thinking about this a few months ago when I brought two sisters from our parish youth group to a procession that the Missionaries of Charity (the nuns who live with disabled, abandoned women in the convent where I work) held in honor of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary. Despite it being a cold, dreary rainy day, we marched alongside the nuns and other devoted persons while carrying a statue of the Virgin Maria.
The nuns ordered us to form lines and sing and encouraged passersby to join in the march. At random spots, Sister Maria stopped us so that we could pray and Rosary and convinced taco-stand diners and tired shopkeepers to join in. At one point, we were praying near the highway and I looked up past the Virgin and saw a huge billboard featuring Hugh Hefner surrounded by three young beautiful blond women--an advertisement for a television show called `The Girls Next Store`. (Although in Mexico the program is called `The Girls of the Playboy Mansion because the irony of the true title would be lost here.)
The moment was a literal synopsis of Gender Studies 101 class that I took ten years ago at a small women's college. Society and the media largely promote the idea that for a women to be looked up to, she must either be a blond, white sex object or as pristine as the Virgin Maria. In the United States, there is much more promotion of beautiful, white women, while in Mexico (at least in the part where I live) images of the Virgin predominate. Mexican women can relate to the morena Virgin of Guadalupe but it would be impossible and superfluous to try and be like skinny, white playboy bunnies.
In general, I think this makes women more nurturing because while they can`t completely be like the Virgin (she was born without original sin), they can emulate her motherly qualities. Thus, senoritas often stop me on the street and ask where I am going, why I don’t have a sweater on, and if I need anything eat. When I visit the house of a woman, she generally lists off or pulls out the contents of her refrigerator and cupboards until she comes upon something to feed me.
The tendency towards caring starts at a young age. The other day, I woke up an older man who was passed out drunk on a sidewalk and I sat chatting with him in order to assess his condition. He was bleeding and I thought he should go to a hospital. A thirteen-year old girl and her seven-year-old sister approached me and asked if I needed any help. While they went to look around for taxis, a police officer walked right past by the man and ignored me when I tried to get his attention. (He was escorting someone delivering a large order of beer to a shop.) Eventually I realized the drunk man could talk cohesively and a local tortilla shop-owner who knew him said he would watch out for him. Coincidentally, I ran into the girls later on that afternoon at the convent, as they were volunteering there as well.
Personally, while I reap the benefits of girls and women who are motherly, it can also be difficult. As a young women associated with the church I feel like I`m expected to be offer unconditional affection as well. At work, I am surrounded by orphans and handicapped people who are constantly in need and I accept this. Even outside of that, life can be heavy as I often find myself trying to be patient while listening to the problems of strangers on the street or trapped in one-sided conversations with parishioners at church. Some burdens are ones that I have placed on myself, because as I missionary I feel more of a duty to help the neglected that I come upon in the street than I would have in the United States. (More and more it seems, Jessica and I find ourselves stumbling over people passed out in the street and we recently went to our first AA meeting in order to figure out how we can help the situation.)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
While walking on the day of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary , the two sisters who I had brought along held hands and huddled together to shelter each other from the rain. In general, the bonds among females are stronger here, perhaps to protect each other against a culture of machismo, perhaps because they identify with each other caretakers, or perhaps because they cling to each other as they would Maria. It`s rare to see a girl or young woman alone, they are almost always with a friend, mother or sister. When Jessica and I are not together, we are constantly asked about where the other one is. It's partly out of interest but the implication is: what are you doing by yourself and why are you leaving your friend alone?
I spend my days with nuns who have formed an insular but powerful community. At parties, I see females family members who function smoothly together in cooking and serving meals. In Santa Fe, it`s the norm for sisters or single mothers and daughters to share not just bedrooms but beds. Jessica and I have formed a tight-knit household as we not only live together but spend most of our social time with one another, we work on projects together and for a long time, I relied on her heavily in order to communicate with others. Women gain strength from each other here.
In a few weeks, two new missionaries will joining us in Santa Fe, doubling the size of our household. (Jackie left way back in October due to the health problems of a family member. I was too sad to write about it, but we miss her everyday.) Though I am little leery of sharing a room for the first time since college, I am excited not just for more company but because new-comers mean that the missionary presence continues even after Jessica and I end our time here. Thus being part of this program makes me feel like I am something bigger than just the work I am doing over the course of two years.
Jessica and I talk about the new girls (Melissa and Lisa, both fresh out of college) like parents expecting newborns--we wonder what they will look like, how they will react to their surroundings, and what they will think of us. We even speculate about their names as Mexicans tend to make adjustments to English names. I am excited for the experiences they will have, nervous for them because I know the hardships they will face, and eager to help them through the tough times and share what I have have learned from my year here. August, it seems, is a month of walking together.
Lately, Santa Maria has been doing a lot of walking with the people of Santa Fe. As I've mentioned before, the Virgin Maria is revered by most everyone here and the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe (commemorating the day in the 1500s when she appeared as indigenous women outside of Mexico City) is amongst biggest holidays of the year. I recently learned that locally the Feast of the Assumption of Mary is almost equally as significant due to the fact that our parish is named in honor of her.
This means that since the beginning of August there have been processions, fireworks and fiestas in her honor which are leading up to the August 15th feast day. Certain groups have their own special celebrations. The other day, a statue of the Virgin was displayed in the marketplace along with welcoming signs and flowers. As I was walking home from work that day (irritated by the noisy, daytime fireworks being set off), a woman whom I had never met before grabbed me asked me why I wasn`t taking part in the parade that was going to be had with the statue. She begrudgingly accepted that I couldn't go because I had a class to teach.
No matter. Santa Maria came to me, as a group of paraders dressed in white carried her statue past my home. They returned a half hour later, stopped in front of our chapel, and a woman more or less demanded that I open up its` doors. Trumpets and hornets were blasting, participants sang, and friends of ours went up on the roof to ring the church bells. Little children trooped in and out of our house to use the bathroom. It seems my frequent singing the song worked and Santa Maria (and her followers) walked to me.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How does it affect girls growing up in a country where there is such devotion to a figure whose three most well-known qualities are that she is a virgin, she is a mother and she is without sin? I began thinking about this a few months ago when I brought two sisters from our parish youth group to a procession that the Missionaries of Charity (the nuns who live with disabled, abandoned women in the convent where I work) held in honor of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary. Despite it being a cold, dreary rainy day, we marched alongside the nuns and other devoted persons while carrying a statue of the Virgin Maria.
The nuns ordered us to form lines and sing and encouraged passersby to join in the march. At random spots, Sister Maria stopped us so that we could pray and Rosary and convinced taco-stand diners and tired shopkeepers to join in. At one point, we were praying near the highway and I looked up past the Virgin and saw a huge billboard featuring Hugh Hefner surrounded by three young beautiful blond women--an advertisement for a television show called `The Girls Next Store`. (Although in Mexico the program is called `The Girls of the Playboy Mansion because the irony of the true title would be lost here.)
The moment was a literal synopsis of Gender Studies 101 class that I took ten years ago at a small women's college. Society and the media largely promote the idea that for a women to be looked up to, she must either be a blond, white sex object or as pristine as the Virgin Maria. In the United States, there is much more promotion of beautiful, white women, while in Mexico (at least in the part where I live) images of the Virgin predominate. Mexican women can relate to the morena Virgin of Guadalupe but it would be impossible and superfluous to try and be like skinny, white playboy bunnies.
In general, I think this makes women more nurturing because while they can`t completely be like the Virgin (she was born without original sin), they can emulate her motherly qualities. Thus, senoritas often stop me on the street and ask where I am going, why I don’t have a sweater on, and if I need anything eat. When I visit the house of a woman, she generally lists off or pulls out the contents of her refrigerator and cupboards until she comes upon something to feed me.
The tendency towards caring starts at a young age. The other day, I woke up an older man who was passed out drunk on a sidewalk and I sat chatting with him in order to assess his condition. He was bleeding and I thought he should go to a hospital. A thirteen-year old girl and her seven-year-old sister approached me and asked if I needed any help. While they went to look around for taxis, a police officer walked right past by the man and ignored me when I tried to get his attention. (He was escorting someone delivering a large order of beer to a shop.) Eventually I realized the drunk man could talk cohesively and a local tortilla shop-owner who knew him said he would watch out for him. Coincidentally, I ran into the girls later on that afternoon at the convent, as they were volunteering there as well.
Personally, while I reap the benefits of girls and women who are motherly, it can also be difficult. As a young women associated with the church I feel like I`m expected to be offer unconditional affection as well. At work, I am surrounded by orphans and handicapped people who are constantly in need and I accept this. Even outside of that, life can be heavy as I often find myself trying to be patient while listening to the problems of strangers on the street or trapped in one-sided conversations with parishioners at church. Some burdens are ones that I have placed on myself, because as I missionary I feel more of a duty to help the neglected that I come upon in the street than I would have in the United States. (More and more it seems, Jessica and I find ourselves stumbling over people passed out in the street and we recently went to our first AA meeting in order to figure out how we can help the situation.)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
While walking on the day of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary , the two sisters who I had brought along held hands and huddled together to shelter each other from the rain. In general, the bonds among females are stronger here, perhaps to protect each other against a culture of machismo, perhaps because they identify with each other caretakers, or perhaps because they cling to each other as they would Maria. It`s rare to see a girl or young woman alone, they are almost always with a friend, mother or sister. When Jessica and I are not together, we are constantly asked about where the other one is. It's partly out of interest but the implication is: what are you doing by yourself and why are you leaving your friend alone?
I spend my days with nuns who have formed an insular but powerful community. At parties, I see females family members who function smoothly together in cooking and serving meals. In Santa Fe, it`s the norm for sisters or single mothers and daughters to share not just bedrooms but beds. Jessica and I have formed a tight-knit household as we not only live together but spend most of our social time with one another, we work on projects together and for a long time, I relied on her heavily in order to communicate with others. Women gain strength from each other here.
In a few weeks, two new missionaries will joining us in Santa Fe, doubling the size of our household. (Jackie left way back in October due to the health problems of a family member. I was too sad to write about it, but we miss her everyday.) Though I am little leery of sharing a room for the first time since college, I am excited not just for more company but because new-comers mean that the missionary presence continues even after Jessica and I end our time here. Thus being part of this program makes me feel like I am something bigger than just the work I am doing over the course of two years.
Jessica and I talk about the new girls (Melissa and Lisa, both fresh out of college) like parents expecting newborns--we wonder what they will look like, how they will react to their surroundings, and what they will think of us. We even speculate about their names as Mexicans tend to make adjustments to English names. I am excited for the experiences they will have, nervous for them because I know the hardships they will face, and eager to help them through the tough times and share what I have have learned from my year here. August, it seems, is a month of walking together.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Streets of Santa Fe
The streets of Santa Fe are filled with the sound of vendors announcing they have the cheapest and best strawberries, oils, mangoes, matches, or whatever they happen to have for sale. Theyt sit in the back of pick-up trucks turned stores and try to lure in customers. Their voices have competition when the gas man walks by yelling ``G-G-Gas`` repeatedly to signify his truck of of nearby tanks, or the garbageman comes past ringing a bell to let people know they can give him their trash.
Panderias fill the air with smells of fresh sweet breads, but I often leave lose my appetite upon seeing the whole carcasses that are hung and hacked at in front of butcher shops. Most homes retain their original drab concrete color,ing though the stores are brightly painted and decorated with elaborate lettering and cartoon pictures. Cars whiz past, except when they have to prod through pedestrians or struggle up a steep hill. Salsa music is pretty much always blaring. Packs of wild dogs roam around examining the trash that is thrown into the streets.
In the midst of all the chaos, I still manage to draw attention. People constantly call out to me `Hola Guera` or `Hey Guerita`, which basically means `Hi white girl`. Though I am told guera is a compliment, I have suspicions as I can think of many terms that minorities are called in the United States, and none are ones I would ever say or print.
Despite my natural ability to get attention, I keep finding myself in situations that draw even more notice. At work the other day, Sister Estella asked me to pick up Vickie from school. In order to to so, I had to accompany one of the residents, Clara, who has a photo ID that enables her to get inside the school. Sister Estrella says that Clara likes the trip because it lets her out for a while and makes her feel valuable. She keeps herself well-groomed all day in anticipation of going.
Off we went, with Clara leading while grunting and pointing, as she is mute. Along the way I bought Vickie a snack of water and corn chips. Once we had collected her, Vickie announced ``Quiero helado`` as the ice cream man had smartly packed his stand right in front of the kindergarten. Vickie chose coconut, while Clara (I hope) was happy with chocolate.
``What`s this?`` Vickie asked as she pulled out pieces of shaved coconut from her ice cream.
``I don`t want them,`` she said as she handed them to me.
``Well, I don`t want them either,`` I said, throwing them on the ground so that I could keep grasp of her wheelchair.
Though the house if a 5-minute walk from her school, Vickie tried to prolong the trek home by insisting on walking on certain parts of the sidewalk. She also had it in mind to zigzag across the streets instead of keeping a straight course. Leery or unnecessary crossings, I struggled to keep her on a straight path as she pushed herself to the side.
There I was, a white lady fighting with a handicapped little girl while being trailed by a mute, elderly lady. We drew a few stares but made it back in tact.
After work, I went of to a friends` house to retrieve a pair of sunglasses I had forgotten. Along the way, I ran into Antonio, who lives at the parish. I invited Antonio to take a walk with me, and as he`s a slow mover, he turned a three-minute trip into a fifteen minute one. He was also being trailed by five of the parish dogs. Upon reaching Paublo`s home, a dogfight ensued, with the parish dogs battling Paublos` pit bulls. We all screamed, Antonio kicked, and it was finally broken up. As Antonio, I and the perros walked backe, Antonio chatted incessantly. I could barely understand him, so I just politely listened and wondered how someone who lives at a church, works for the church (running errands and doing yard work) and spends his free time at Mass could have so much to say.
In the streets, I often encounter Lucius, a man I became acquainted with him when I encountered him drunk in front of the parish with a huge gash on his face. Only being able to help him in that moment, I told him I really liked the type of liquor he was holding and convinced him to give me the bottle. Though he hasn`t fallen for that trick again, we always make small talk and when he his lucid he is pleasant and tells me admires the work I do and if he can help by teaching me Spanish. When he`s far out of it, he slurs beyond comprehension and I push him away if he aggressively tries to hug me. During these interactions, everyone in the market street seems to be watching either curiously or with worry.
It`s through the streets that I had my first success as a proselytizing missionary as I brought someone into the folds of the Catholic Church. Lately, I have been walking up and down the streets of the Puebla Nueva, a steep hill near the home of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word. A young teenage boy approached Sister Angelita and professed his love for me and asked for advice on wooing me. It seems he started going to Mass in hopes of seeing me. I haven`t heard from him though--perhaps I was a tool calling him to priesthood.
There is always something going on outdoors. I buy lollipops from Lupita or give her food as she sniffs kerchiefs soaked in paint thinner. I say hello to Raul, a homeless man who directs traffic. I receive free tamales from Conchita, a church lady with pink hair bound in curlers, who keeps a stand during the nights. I constantly run into shopkeepers and co-workers I know and guys feel compelled to shout whatever English they know at me. I see my English students and youth group members, busy on their cell phones and flirting with their friends, and I feel comforted knowing some things are just like the U.S.A.
I actually don`t go many places in Santa Fe. My workplace is a ten-minute walk from my house and the parish is along the way. Weekly, Jessica and I venture to the market and I take my walks down Puebla Nueva. I have a rather limited view of the community. Despite this, more than in other place I have lived, every day I feel as if I am going out into the world.
Panderias fill the air with smells of fresh sweet breads, but I often leave lose my appetite upon seeing the whole carcasses that are hung and hacked at in front of butcher shops. Most homes retain their original drab concrete color,ing though the stores are brightly painted and decorated with elaborate lettering and cartoon pictures. Cars whiz past, except when they have to prod through pedestrians or struggle up a steep hill. Salsa music is pretty much always blaring. Packs of wild dogs roam around examining the trash that is thrown into the streets.
In the midst of all the chaos, I still manage to draw attention. People constantly call out to me `Hola Guera` or `Hey Guerita`, which basically means `Hi white girl`. Though I am told guera is a compliment, I have suspicions as I can think of many terms that minorities are called in the United States, and none are ones I would ever say or print.
Despite my natural ability to get attention, I keep finding myself in situations that draw even more notice. At work the other day, Sister Estella asked me to pick up Vickie from school. In order to to so, I had to accompany one of the residents, Clara, who has a photo ID that enables her to get inside the school. Sister Estrella says that Clara likes the trip because it lets her out for a while and makes her feel valuable. She keeps herself well-groomed all day in anticipation of going.
Off we went, with Clara leading while grunting and pointing, as she is mute. Along the way I bought Vickie a snack of water and corn chips. Once we had collected her, Vickie announced ``Quiero helado`` as the ice cream man had smartly packed his stand right in front of the kindergarten. Vickie chose coconut, while Clara (I hope) was happy with chocolate.
``What`s this?`` Vickie asked as she pulled out pieces of shaved coconut from her ice cream.
``I don`t want them,`` she said as she handed them to me.
``Well, I don`t want them either,`` I said, throwing them on the ground so that I could keep grasp of her wheelchair.
Though the house if a 5-minute walk from her school, Vickie tried to prolong the trek home by insisting on walking on certain parts of the sidewalk. She also had it in mind to zigzag across the streets instead of keeping a straight course. Leery or unnecessary crossings, I struggled to keep her on a straight path as she pushed herself to the side.
There I was, a white lady fighting with a handicapped little girl while being trailed by a mute, elderly lady. We drew a few stares but made it back in tact.
After work, I went of to a friends` house to retrieve a pair of sunglasses I had forgotten. Along the way, I ran into Antonio, who lives at the parish. I invited Antonio to take a walk with me, and as he`s a slow mover, he turned a three-minute trip into a fifteen minute one. He was also being trailed by five of the parish dogs. Upon reaching Paublo`s home, a dogfight ensued, with the parish dogs battling Paublos` pit bulls. We all screamed, Antonio kicked, and it was finally broken up. As Antonio, I and the perros walked backe, Antonio chatted incessantly. I could barely understand him, so I just politely listened and wondered how someone who lives at a church, works for the church (running errands and doing yard work) and spends his free time at Mass could have so much to say.
In the streets, I often encounter Lucius, a man I became acquainted with him when I encountered him drunk in front of the parish with a huge gash on his face. Only being able to help him in that moment, I told him I really liked the type of liquor he was holding and convinced him to give me the bottle. Though he hasn`t fallen for that trick again, we always make small talk and when he his lucid he is pleasant and tells me admires the work I do and if he can help by teaching me Spanish. When he`s far out of it, he slurs beyond comprehension and I push him away if he aggressively tries to hug me. During these interactions, everyone in the market street seems to be watching either curiously or with worry.
It`s through the streets that I had my first success as a proselytizing missionary as I brought someone into the folds of the Catholic Church. Lately, I have been walking up and down the streets of the Puebla Nueva, a steep hill near the home of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word. A young teenage boy approached Sister Angelita and professed his love for me and asked for advice on wooing me. It seems he started going to Mass in hopes of seeing me. I haven`t heard from him though--perhaps I was a tool calling him to priesthood.
There is always something going on outdoors. I buy lollipops from Lupita or give her food as she sniffs kerchiefs soaked in paint thinner. I say hello to Raul, a homeless man who directs traffic. I receive free tamales from Conchita, a church lady with pink hair bound in curlers, who keeps a stand during the nights. I constantly run into shopkeepers and co-workers I know and guys feel compelled to shout whatever English they know at me. I see my English students and youth group members, busy on their cell phones and flirting with their friends, and I feel comforted knowing some things are just like the U.S.A.
I actually don`t go many places in Santa Fe. My workplace is a ten-minute walk from my house and the parish is along the way. Weekly, Jessica and I venture to the market and I take my walks down Puebla Nueva. I have a rather limited view of the community. Despite this, more than in other place I have lived, every day I feel as if I am going out into the world.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Puebla, Puebla
A must-do for any Catholic missionary in Mexico is take a trip to Puebla, Puebla. The first town in Mexico to be founded by Spaniards is home to 364 churches and only about 200,000 people. On just about every corner you will find an iglesia ( which makes it difficult to keep up with the Catholic custom of making the sign of the cross everytime you pass a church).
Jessica and I recently made a weekend trip there, though not quite for religious purposes. Puebla is known for its blue and white ceramic pottery and for being the creation spot of mole--a thick, complex sauce made with numerous ingredients including chocolate. Jess wanted to pick up some of each as souvenirs for her upcoming visit home. We also wanted to relax in the town`s tranquil European-style streets and drink coffee.
We took a scenic two-hour bus ride to the city, riding past the volcano Popocatépetl. The trip is a blur of funky marketplaces, churches and seeing the body of St. Francisco. One of the things that proves he is a saint is the fact the his body is supposedly not decaying despite the fact the he died some 500 years ago. However, his body looked at a bit funky to me as well.
Overall, the churches were quite beautiful but some were bordering on gaudy as they were lavishly covered with gold. Jessica and I both had moral qualms with the amount of wealth actually in churches. One guide explained that hundreds of years ago, churches were decorated with gold in order to draw the attention of people since people were illiterate and books couldn't be used. On the positive sides, the churches are open for all people, rich and poor, to enjoy. (On another negative note, I found the church workers to be quite unforgiving as two repeatedly screamed at me after I accidentally used my flash when taking pictures.)
What stands out for me more is a our trip to Cholula. We went there in order to visit the Great Pyramid of Cholula--the world`s largest monument. Though we expected to take a bus directly to the site, we got lost and ended up in the middle of town. It all worked out as we attended Mass in a sedate church and found the town of Cholula to be more relaxed than Puebla and we were able to sit in a park.
After making our way to the remains of the pyramid, we climbed it and then encountered the Church of Our Lady or Remedies, which sits atop the pyramid. While catching out breath, we met an American minister who has been living in Mexico city as missionary for the past 22 years.(Making our two-year commitment seem slack.) We were able to get some trade tips from him-- advice and information on drug rehabilitation programs.
Jessica and I recently made a weekend trip there, though not quite for religious purposes. Puebla is known for its blue and white ceramic pottery and for being the creation spot of mole--a thick, complex sauce made with numerous ingredients including chocolate. Jess wanted to pick up some of each as souvenirs for her upcoming visit home. We also wanted to relax in the town`s tranquil European-style streets and drink coffee.
We took a scenic two-hour bus ride to the city, riding past the volcano Popocatépetl. The trip is a blur of funky marketplaces, churches and seeing the body of St. Francisco. One of the things that proves he is a saint is the fact the his body is supposedly not decaying despite the fact the he died some 500 years ago. However, his body looked at a bit funky to me as well.
Overall, the churches were quite beautiful but some were bordering on gaudy as they were lavishly covered with gold. Jessica and I both had moral qualms with the amount of wealth actually in churches. One guide explained that hundreds of years ago, churches were decorated with gold in order to draw the attention of people since people were illiterate and books couldn't be used. On the positive sides, the churches are open for all people, rich and poor, to enjoy. (On another negative note, I found the church workers to be quite unforgiving as two repeatedly screamed at me after I accidentally used my flash when taking pictures.)
What stands out for me more is a our trip to Cholula. We went there in order to visit the Great Pyramid of Cholula--the world`s largest monument. Though we expected to take a bus directly to the site, we got lost and ended up in the middle of town. It all worked out as we attended Mass in a sedate church and found the town of Cholula to be more relaxed than Puebla and we were able to sit in a park.
After making our way to the remains of the pyramid, we climbed it and then encountered the Church of Our Lady or Remedies, which sits atop the pyramid. While catching out breath, we met an American minister who has been living in Mexico city as missionary for the past 22 years.(Making our two-year commitment seem slack.) We were able to get some trade tips from him-- advice and information on drug rehabilitation programs.
Then we explored the church itself--check out the translations-
Back on the ground, we went inside the pyramid and explored complex tunnels and stairs. Outside were remains of altars, stairs and game spots. The whole site followed the Spaniard custom of building religious spots on top of Mayan and Aztec sites. It was symbolic of the way Catholicism is in Mexico--people are outwardly Catholic, but beliefs are intertwined with native practices underneath.
The trip ended with a two-hour bus ride to Mexico City, followed by one and a half hours on public transpiration back to Santa Fe, souvenirs in hand. Good practice for Jess as she will soon be lugging all that pottery and mole back to the States.
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