Ya no estoy en México

The biggest difference between then (last semester) and now (now) is that I´m not in México lindo y querido anymore; I´m in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and this is a post to sum up the last months.

Pre-llegada, or Johanna in Hats: A Series (as the Facebook photo album will be called when I finally upload the pictures)

I spent a couple of awesome days in a just-post-snowpocalypsis Chicago with Andrea Fullerton and Allie Wigley; then three weeks at Kenyon; then a week in Miami with Johanna Ralsten (in hats) and Justin Cox and Megan Beddow.  This domestic traveling was lovely.

Llegada, or Buenos Aires is a big city

I left from Miami on March 5, waited in a very long but slow-moving line at check-in, almost didn´t make the flight, but luckily they found a seat for me – in first class.  I arrived in Buenos Aires the morning of March 6, got to my homestay after losing myself in the early morning crates and tents of la Feria de San Telmo, slept, and then went out to explore.  Moni, my host, and I live about a block and half away from la Casa Rosada and the Plaza de Mayo, two important sites in Argentine history, so we are in the heart of a city that still beats for its disappeared.  Voy conociendo Buenos Aires, making friends, getting lost, adjusting to everything because it´s all new: the accent (in the Rio de la Plata region, instead of a y sound for the ll, más bien es un sh: sho me shamo Chris); the food (empanadas are delicious, re ricas); the city life; the nightlife (dawn is early here, o sea, party until dawn and then some); the end-of-summer warmth; the academic style; the toilets; the mannerisms; you know…

We had a week of orientation with the Middlebury program.  About half the participants are students from Middlebury, and the rest of us come from different schools.  I´m directly enrolled at la Universidad de Buenos Aires, slightly bigger than Kenyon, but still a great educational experience.  I´m taking two classes, sociología de la religión with Dri, who, me dicen, is well-known among intellectual circles of Buenos Aires, and seminario de la cultura popular y la cultura masiva.  One difference between here and there that I love, que me encanta, es eso de the political awareness and involvement of the estudiantes: because there is no all-stu e-mail system here to get the word out about an event, students (generally in twos) come from classroom to classroom, requesting politely to interrupt, and advertise with flyers and announcements upcoming political events: take back the Malvinas, come hear Hugo Chavez speak, el partido obrero would like to talk to you…  If we were to think of it in terms of development, American students are certainly under-. (See The Middle, or Americans in town.)

And I feel pretty well-prepared for my classes here, after Kenyon and Mexico.  Only one professor talks too fast, and when I don´t understand something, it´s not because of vocabulario or gramática sino que it´s something conceptual.  The difference between here and there about which I´m still ambivalent is eso de la theory, because students at la UBA have a more than solid background built on theorists of the last two centuries, especially Marx, and that makes taking an upper- or mid-level class hard when you are lacking in Marx, or Engels, or Gramsci, or Bajtin, o quien sea.  But so far, so good, and I´ve even spoken in class: once to comment on the grotesque body in the works of Rabelais as containing both life and death, as interpreted by Bajtin, and the second time only five words (which are five words more than zero words): “¿Eso de la locura, no?”  Así que, considering that I was in a room full of eloquent and beautiful Argentines, I feel accomplished at having put forward my dos centavos.

The Middle, or Americans in town

I´m slowly learning to navigate independently through the avenidas, pasajes, and callejones of Buenos Aires, and whenever I manage to arrive at what I thought would be my destination without losing myself, I´m happy.  And, if I get lost, people are generally friendly enough to direct me, ask me where I´m from, ask me what I´m studying and chao nos vemos.  I was very happy to successfully arrive at la Facultad de Derecho de la UBA a few weeks ago when, as guests of the U.S. Embassy, we were invited to attend a conference with Sandra Day O´Connor.  She began by acknowledging that Argentina has been more successful than the U.S. in terms of incorporating women into the lawforce*, commented on how difficult it was for her to find work when she had recently graduated from Stanford, and argued for the importance of educating the youth of both the United States and Argentina not only in math and science but also in history and civics, to better understand the politics and functioning of the Argentine/U.S. government.  (Humanities and fine arts always seem to be left out…)

I have been to the cine with my host a couple of times: the INCAA theater proudly shows only Argentine films, for 8 pesos, roughly 2 dollars, and I plan on going many times this semester.

Last week, some friends from Ciencias Sociales and I marched with other students, members of political parties, gente de todo tipo, in a march that commemorated the dictatorship; a day to remember what´s happened, to criticize and learn from.  We marched from the Plaza de Congreso down to Plaza de Mayo, the cantidad de gente was impressive, and todo bien.

Unrelated, by also occurring in the Middle, I have been to Starbucks twice in the search of a good study space (still in progress, see Últimamente, or when not everything goes well for information on where not to study), and I still feel guilty about supporting economic imperialism.

*We´re inventing words all the time in Spanish when we struggle with el vocab castellano, so why not throw in some English-language neologisms as well?

Últimamente, or when not everything goes well

I have recently been dealing with a few crises, which aren´t that big of a deal, not in the grand scheme and not in comparison with the trials of million, and I am a child of privilege and luxury and ya sabes, but I´ll talk about them anyway: my computer charge broke, and Apple hardly exists in Buenos Aires (as Cami Odio so eloquently stated in an e-mail: Argentina is really behind in the globalization times); books for school are equally hard to find, and both books and charger have led me an wanderings all across the city, but no luck; and I experienced my first big-city robber encounter last Monday.  Ima lay it down, brevemente, but it´s probably not such a big deal, and yep:

I was sitting in this park right next to la Facultad de Medicina, en plena luz, at 3 in the afternoon; in the middle of my reading on the negation of the universal abstract, and the subsequent negation of that negation to arrive at the universal concrete and maturity, these two guys come up and sit down: one on side, the other por el otro lado.  They start talking to me: they mention cameras, and I´m confused.  And I probably look confused, because the one guy with the really bloodshot eyes says to me: Tranquilo.  And then he says: Tengo fierro, I have a knife.  So first they wanted my cellphone.  I gave them my Argentine cellular, since I´m not too attached to it, and it was easier to just give them something.  Then the guy said: Quiero que nos des la mochila, my backpack, and that´s when the mid-afternoon tides turned.  My thought process, which I explained out loud to my ladrones pals, was: my homework is in my bag, that´s hours and hours of intellectual labor, I am not willing to part with that at all.  So, at the risk of my life, at the risk of the knife that probably wasn´t there, I said no.  And then they asked for my wallet.  And then I started to scream, y grité, Alguien me ayuda, porfavor, not to get someone to help, but to get someone in the park to look at us, and there were probably 9 or 10 people that looked up from what they were doing – the coordinator of the program, however, has suggested using “fire” instead of “help” because people in Argentina do not tend to respond to “help” but will respond when their personal safety is threatened.  So I screamed, got some attention, then I stood up, told the ladrones poco exitosos que ya me voy, chao, and I walked away, with my life, my wallet, my backpack, and the physical manifestation of hours and hours of intellectual labor. 

A couple sitting on a bench talked with me for a little bit, calmed me down, asked me where I was from and what I was studying, then recommended I go drink some coffee or tea to calm myself down.  I was trembling, temblando por a good while, and then I went to class.  Obviously, I don´t blame Latin America, it´s something universal to big cities (¿maybe?), and there are probably a lot of economic and class factors that play into the situation that I know nothing about.  No big deal, right?

So, in addition to the Mac charger and the school books, I´ve also been trying to buy a new cellphone, which was hard the first day because they were out of the cheapest model, and hard today because I didn´t have my passport and Movistar would not even think of selling me a pay-as-you-go phone without the proper documentation.

Looking ahead, or looking west

Tomorrow a friend from the program and I will begin the long omnibus trek to Santiago, Chile, to meet up with friends from Kenyon and the Valpo Middlebury program, and to experience Lollapalooza, a la chilena. 

I am hoping that getting out of Buenos Aires will get me back into Buenos Aires, se entiende?

And this just because

Some citas that have really spoken to me in the hours and hours of intellectual labor:

“No es la primera vez en la historia de la humanidad que las condiciones económicas resultan más poderosas que los más bellos discursos” (Rosa Luxemburgo 179); It is not the first time in the history of humanity that economic conditions have been more powerful than the most beautiful discourses.

“Desde el momento que digo yo; desde el momento que me particularizo, que me elijo, que elijo ser yo, único e irrepetible, siento que rompo la unidad con mi familia, con mi madre, con todo el mundo…” (Rubén Dri 18)

As I said to the ladrones: Ya me voy, chao!

Besotes, abrazotes, and all my love

One week late, ¡Feliz cumple, Sor Juana!

So most days when you’re a foreigner in another country, when everyone recognizes you as a güero and has to act all patient with your not-native Spanish, pues, it can get you kind of down and make you feel very out of place.  But today I was in place, which put me in the blogging mood, so let me make up for the lost weeks.

1.  My madrina visited a couple weeks ago, and my host family agreed to host her too, and they were very gracious about it.  I had to travel up to Mexico City to pick her up, so I was gone all day, and when we get back to Cuautla at 8 or 9 that night, my family had mole all ready for us, and flowers and a note of Bienvenida waiting for Tina in her room, and it was all demasiado.  How to say gracias when it’s not enough, not suficiente?

I’m pretty sure Tina enjoyed her stay, though she encountered some of the same problems I did during my first weeks: stomach issues because the food is so (but so!, to use the Spanish grammatical construction) different; scared of the distinctly Mexican environment; sympathy for the stray dogs, etc.  But I’m glad she came and shared the fuera-del-comfort-zone experience with me.

2.  Her visit also happened to coincide with Día de los Muertos, which, hasta este punto, has been my favorite Mexican holiday.  In school, we made our very own ofrenda: candy skulls, flowers, notes to our muertos (deceased), remembrance and love and pan de muertos (¡qué sabroso!) and arroz con leche and pumpkin shards.

We all made a trip together to the panteón: flower petals covering the grave mounds, thousands of candles, family members all gathered round, music (banda), alcohol, and fireworks.  Memorial Day done the Mexican (read: better) way.

3.  Me tocó ser en México for the new Harry Potter movie, so my host hermanos and a cousin and I all went to the theater (the one right next to our globalizing friend/force, WalMart) to see it.  So exciting, and, like I wrote on Facebook, I got to see Harry Potter 7 on November 7 at 10:45, 24+ hours before my UnitedStates friends; just goes to show that "underdevelopment" is in the eye of the beholder...

I have no idea how I was lucky enough to see it earlier than the country I come from, but I liked it.  Also, on the way to the theater, my host brother Octavio told me a Harry Potter joke, which I thought was absolutely hilariosu (but probably only because it means that I understand enough Spanish to understand the humor): Si Harry Potter fuera mexicano, Ron sería Tequila; translates to: If Harry Potter were Mexican, Ron would be Tequila.  (To understand the joke, important to know that “ron” in Spanish is rum.  ¿Ves?  Jeje.)

And in the theater concessions, I found a patch of peach rings; I think I bought 100 pesos worth, I was so excited for the familiar flavor.

4.  We have these things called conferences, part of the academic experience of the program, every Friday night.  Two Fridays ago, I learned about the intersection of cultural imperialism and global warming: countries like the United States, one of the world’s biggest polluters/warmers, can afford to pay to adapt to a warmer world; African countries, statistically not world warmers, will be affected the most by global warming and won’t have the money to adapt.

5.  What I learned in last Friday’s conference: No debes trabajar para el pueblo, sino con el pueblo.  Es decir: you’ve gotta work with the people, not for them.

6.  Today in la biblioteca, I had just finished helping some alumnos with their English pronunciation (I still feel guilty about it), and a man medio-loco walked in.  We could tell by his dress that he was probably homeless, sin casa, pues, without a lot; he deposited his guitar, trumpet, sticks, backpack, and notebooks at the reception with Don Juel, then passed by me and, thinking he could communicate with me in inglés, began to speak to me in a mixture of English and Spanish.  What he said in English, repeatedly, was: Big brother, excuse me, excuse me, very good!, very good!, big brother; only he said it with gestures of reason, as if to say: Hey, it’s so good to see you again, shame to hear about all the bad weather in Veracruz, what do you think of Ximeña’s new canción?

He went into the computer lab, and the mujeres of the bliblioteca immediately went for the policía; apparently this same guy had come in yesterday, fallen asleep in the computer lab, started snoring, then walked out with Mari’s glasses and someone’s soda.  That’s to say, he was malas noticias, though there was probably some link between his homelessness and his mental condition, and we were sad to kick him out.

As the polícia escorted him, he stopped and talked some more with me, told me that if I could get him a visa, we could travel por Italia.  He shook my hand and walked out with dignity in one hand, trumpet in the other.

As soon as he was out of view, la encargada grabbed me and took me to the bathroom, gave me laundry detergent due to the lack of soap, and made me wash my hands.

Pobrecito, poor guy: I feel guilty about him too.

7.  Speaking of library bathrooms: the presidente municipal (the mayor) was supposed to come last week, then last Tuesday, to inaugurate the library’s new bathrooms; missed both dates, so the bathrooms remain closed.  Inauguration TBD.

8.  + 13 is 21, and that’s how many days me quedan aquí en México.  I can’t believe I’ll be leaving so soon, will have to say goodbye to my host family, and that I’ll have to return to living at cold temperatures.  I’ve gotten so used to Cuautla’s 80 degree November weather...

Vacaciones, parte II: Guanajuato and Querétaro

Today marks two (awesome) months in México, and to commemorate, and to catch you (or me) up on what I’ve been doing, yep:

1.  The first day of vacaciones, I was pretty homesick for my Cuautla family, and when I sat down in the México D.F. bus station to eat the tortas my mom had made for me, I found a napkin note slipped in: wishing me a “buen viaje,” apologizing that I had to eat some tortas (she knows how much I like pan dulce), y que te vamos a extrañar (we’re going to miss you).  Just reinforces the fact that my host family is the best – or at least that’s what I was thinking as I ate the pan dulce I had bought – after finishing my tortas, of course.

2.  Guanajuato is beautiful and colonial and very proud of its Spanish/criollo heritage; we were there as a group for three days, but then my friends Ance and Dessa and I returned for another seven days to attend the Festival Internacional Cervantino, celebrating Cervantes and el arte en general.  At the Festival, we saw (lots) of Canadians (Dave Young, Caribou, Soundstreams), the Universidad de Guanajuato’s Ballet Folklórico, an Irish theater troupe, an Israeli-directed play, and an Argentine percussion group.

A picture so that you, too, can appreciate the Spanish architecture, feel, heritage of a Mexican (ex-?)colonial city.

3.  We also got to visit the surrounding pueblos: San Miguel de Allende, Dolores Hidalgo, and another pueblo with dirt roads that was straight out of a Rulfo cuento corto.  In Dolores Hidalgo, where Hidalgo gave the Grito de Independencia in 1810, I had the opportunity to try very unique flavors of nieve (a kind of ice cream): tequila; camarones con pulpa (shrimp with pulp) which is as gross as it sounds; mole (a traditional Mexican dish); and rose petals.

4.  In Guanajuato, Ance really wanted to subir una montaña, though we couldn’t find a way to get into the countryside guanajuatense.  Por eso, one day we decided to just start going up, see where we ended up.  When the paved street ended and the dirt road began, we met un hombre mexicano que se llama Luis.  He was very drunk, tequila bottle in hand, and he was also high, and he began to threaten us: do you know how many gringos have died here?, you’re gringos walking all over our land, I’m the owner of these mountains, if you don’t give me 10 pesos (do you understand 10 pesos?) I’m going to put a brujería (witchcraft) on you!  So we gave him ten pesos and kept going up the dirt road, admiring the grandiose view of the city.

And Luis kept following us: he offered to take us inside fenced-off government property to get a better view of GTO; kept caressing Ance’s head, telling her she had beautiful hair, and asking if he could have a few strands (to make a clone, for brujería, quién sabe); and making me feel very uncomfortable – though Ance was fine and told me we just had to treat the guy like a kid, with respect, play along.

That made me want even more to get out of there, and so we did, and the last thing Luis told us was: “¡Acuérdate de la brujería!”

5.  During our independent week in Guanajuato, we stayed in two different hostels, my first time in the hostel establishment.  In the second hostel, I was paying 120 pesos a night (very económico) to stay in a room shared among eight men.  Some of them were Mexican, but mostly lots of foreign tourists: a freelancer from LA, another guy from New Zealand, and three guys from Ireland who most nights did not come back until 5 a.m., and who tended to reject the idea of clothing while sleeping on top of the bedspread.

6.  Ance and I did make one friend from my room, Victor, who took us to the ExpoBicentenario outside of Guanajuato, came with us to several eventos del Cervantino, and told us that it was one of the best weeks of his life and that he would always remember us, viva la amistad.

7.  One of my favorite days in Guanajuato: spent on the terraza (rooftop) of the hostel with a couple of books, some pan dulce, and a gorgeous view of the city.

8.  We got home late last Friday night, after arriving at the wrong station in Mexico City, having the pass through Cuernavaca – where we lost ourselves – to eventually get back to Cuautla.  When we arrived, I told my host family how much I missed them, gave each member a set of momías (a type of candy, modeled after the mummies of Guanajuato, which were nothing special except for the contorted mummy of the woman who was buried alive), we got caught up and then I got in bed, happy to be en casa otra vez.

Vacaciones, part 1

Last miercoles, one week ago from today*, the bells from this church did not wake me up:

(The pink is my house, and the far-off whiteness that isn't so far off when you hear the campanas is the iglesia católica de San José.)

Right now I'm in Querétaro, yesterday I was in Guanajuato, and two days from now I will be back in Guanajuato for the Festival Internacional Cervantino*; this is because Guanajuato is very appreciative of the gifts the Spanish brought al Nuevo Mundo.

*Sorry, wrote this on Wednesday but did not have the internet to post it until today, already back in Guanajuato, and more to come about estas aventuras.

Y otra cosa sabe aún mi corazón

Introduction: Un hombre mexicano found me on the street the other day and spoke to me in English about how he went to high school in Nebraska; Laura the English teacher found me in the library (for the second time) and told me I had to come to practice English with her class; the man with the dogs always tells Sharon and me that we’re a beautiful pair.

Body:

1. On Saturday, I had the awesome opportunity to hang out with the Chávez family, relatives of my track coach that live here in Cuautla, and it was bien padre, güey.*  I stopped by their house, drank some agua de limón, went to Tlayacapan and saw mummies (momías, en español) with them, ate in at least seven (or two) different restaurants, bus tour to an ex-hacienda, witnessed a protest and spotted the Reina de Cuautla (Queen of Cuautla) talking on her cellular.

*Big-time misuse of Mexican slang, but misused con cariño!

2. On Sunday, we (the Earlham group, no Chávez, desafortunadamente) went into Mexico City to see Frida Kahlo’s blue house in Coyoacán.  It was bluer than expected, and also didn’t have as many of Frida’s works as I had hoped.  After that, we went to la UNAM to see a play about the debate between Las Casas and Sepúlveda about the naturaleza of the indigenous people, chatted with some actors before hand, and got back to Cuautla super late, especially for una noche de escuela (school night).  On Monday morning, we were the momías.

3. The weekend before last, we went to Cuernavaca, la capital de Morelos, and saw the palacio of Hernán Cortés; according to my friend Ance’s host mom, this was the lugar where Cortés got it on with his girlfriend, La Malinche.

4. The library is going, but mostly when I’m not in it.  I decided to change projects: now I’m just trying to help kids in elementary school with their homework.  I made a flyer, posted it in the front of la biblioteca (¡Atención, Amiguitos!), and three people came last week.  No obstante, today nobody showed up – which is a mentira (lie), because one girl showed up, but she didn’t want to work with me because “le da pena trabajar conmigo,” which could be a saying but probably means something like “it pains her to work with me.”  So I put return slips in the backs of books for a couple hours and headed home.

5. To make it through, I listen a lot to this song.

6. Last Thursday, Cuautla celebrated its own holiday, and since its official name is H. H. Cuautla, short for Heroic and Historic City of Cuautla, it’s allowed to have a four hour parade.

Closing remarks: people dressed as clowns juggle between cars at stoplights to get a few pesos; men with machetes outside the public library, Norma said they were campesinos there to tend the lawn; we saw an alacrán (scorpion), small and yellow, on a friend’s roof, and it scuttled into the water storage unit.

Reiteration of thesis: I am still a foreigner in México.

My ombligo and el vértigo mexicano

1.

Carmelita, our cooking instructor, explained it to us like this: one way to say where you’re from is to say “allí está enterrado mi ombligo,” which means something like, my umbilical chord (only it’s more literally your belly button) is buried there; because that’s a tradition, I guess, to bury the umbilical chord where you were born.  At the time, after several hours of cooking, exposure to spices and kitchen humidity, I thought this was very funny, and I cried.

2.

So this past Thursday, Mexico celebrated its 200th birthday and a 100 year anniversary of the Mexican Revolution.  The program director Rodolfo is doing his best to make us question both Mexican independence and the success of the revolution; this did not, however, stop us from celebrating or gritando or trying the mezcal.

3.

On Thursday night, to celebrate independence but also because I’ve been longing for familiar flavors, I baked cookies for my host family.  It was a big mess – because I had to translate the recipe, then convert the measurements, then improvise and add some leche – and I was afraid the cookies would not leave the oven as cookies.  But they did, and I ate most of them.

4.

On Saturday, we comi-ed (combis are Mexican public transportation, not buses but vans with benches around the edges) our way to the neighboring pueblos to see the house in which Emiliano Zapata was born, then also the entrance to the hacienda where he was killed.  His remains are actually buried aquí in Cuautla, but his ombligo is elsewhere, i.e.  Anenecuilco.

5.

I also played pool in the family billiard hall for the first time, with some of my amigas from the programa, and also the sister and sister’s boyfriend of one of these amiguitas.  I wasn’t good, but I plan on being tiburón by the time I leave.

6.

And this past weekend, we combi-ed to Tepoztlán and climbed up the pirámide there for a spectacular vista of the city below.  We also edged our way around the very narrow ledge of the pyramid and (I) experienced some Mexican vertigo.

1.5.

And I love Mexico very much, but sometimes I hear my ombligo calling, ¿you know?

Me enamoro de Sor Juana

0.

It’s been raining a lot lately (ya viene la lluvia), so that’s mostly what I listen to when I’m falling asleep.  But when it’s not raining, I like listening to the sound of balls colliding in the billiards hall beneath my window.

1.

Mucho leer a Sor Juana, and here’s my favorite part from her autobiography:

After she cuts off a bunch of her hair, she tells herself that she has to learn and learn and learn more things before her hair grows back to its previous length.  So she didn’t end up learning enough, and she cut her hair again and said: “que no me parecía razón que estuviese vestida de cabellos cabeza que estaba tan desnuda de noticias” (55); that translates to something like: it did not seem reasonable to me that a head should be clothed in hair when it was so naked of knowledge.

Yesterday we went to the Centro Cultural de Sor Juana in Nepantla and saw what remains of the kitchen of SJ’s old house.  At the museo, I fell in love.

2.

Name-calling exists in every culture, I guess, or at least in the U.S. and in México.  While walking home a couple days ago, this guy was staring at me, de una manera muy siniestra, and when we passed each other he said, “Güero,” under his breath.  

My family assures me it wasn’t offensive.

3.

I’ll be working in the Biblioteca/Library in the Centro/Downtown de/of Cuautla.  It’s a beautiful building, a mural on one wall.  And hopefully, in addition to librarial things, I’ll be able to lead some kind of creative writing (escritura creativa) workshop, and (con esperanza) we’ll be able to publish an anthology at the end to be housed in the library.  A ver.

4.

At the beginning of Laura Esquivel’s Como agua para chocolate, the narrator says, “Les sugiero ponerse un pequeño trozo de cebolla en la mollera con el fin de evitar el molesto lagrimeo que se produce cuando uno la está cortando” (3); “To keep from crying when you chop [the onion] (which is so annoying!), I suggest you place a little bit on your head” (4, trans. by Carol Christensen, who added that nice parenthetical).

Carmelita, our cooking instructor, did the same for me, put the onion on my head, and I did not cry.  Carmelita said it was una brujería, a piece of withcraft.  Una brujería que funciona, I said.

5.

Food: for dinner we made picadas and dobladas de pollo, de flor de calabaza, de champiñones, along with agua de tuna and salsa verde.  Also in México, I eat all the foods I didn’t in the EE.UU: onions, tomatoes, chiles, nopales, lengua (yep, tongue on tongue), mushroom soup, pan dulce (which is the greatest), chocolate (which is better than USAmerican hot chocolate).  

6.

Also, last Saturday I went to an antro and ordered a margarita de fresa (obviously with the intention of transgressing gender boundaries).  That was a new experience: being able to ask (legally) for alcohol.

7.

So, all these new sabores, which are wonderful and great and culturally expansive.  But sometimes I still find myself longing for more familiar flavors.

And you all – espero que todo les vaya bien!  Love and abrazos.