Culture Shock?

Fulbright sent me to Washington twice before I arrived in Mexico. Both of these conferences stressed heavily the importance of being aware of culture shock. Culture shock has four phases – the honeymoon, the depression, the rebound, and the return home. Our expert speaker told us that we would be in love with our placements for approximately one month, and by October, we would find ourselves angry, annoyed, and homesick. After a minor freak-out last weekend, I realize I may have slipped into that second phase.

This tends to happen to people in general if they move to a place for a long period of time. Check out this video from a foreign exchange student who came to the US to study business.

 

School is probably the most frustrating part. I haven’t figured out how to teach all I need to teach in the precious few hours I have with students. I feel like other teachers think English class is convenient to interrupt when they need their group for an extra hour.  I have not figured out my classroom management plan for my group of macho guys who can’t sit still for five minutes. (I have them for two hours!!). Also, I miss out on the important information, like being audited next week and needing documentation in my binder. My binder sits empty on my kitchen table.  When I ask where to find this documentation, I am told it should be online, but of course, they haven’t uploaded it yet.

We finally had our induction training this past Saturday where we learned all that needs to go into our binder. I am annoyed it is a month late and that I have to spend three hours of my Saturday at school.

I complained a bit to a friend in an email and received the reflective response expected from a good counselor: it’s frustrating not knowing what you are suppose to do or who to ask for help. After reading this, I realized it wasn’t culture shock I was experiencing; I am a new teacher all over again. Just like my first year teaching in 2006, I am figuring out how to manage time and materials, encountering power struggles with students and staff, and not knowing who to trust and turn to for help.

As for the actual culture part of Mexico, I am falling in love.

Let me give you an example. Last night I attended a birthday party for a three-year old. In Catholic Mexico, turning three is big. It is the age when Mary first presented Jesus to the church, and so here, at three years old, it is custom for the parents to present their child to the church.

Coco, my boss, invited me to this celebration – she and her husband, Jesus, who everyone calls Chucho, are the girl’s godparents. She gives me a gorgeous invitation and notes the time says 4:30, but it actually begins at 5:00. ”You know how impuntuales los mexicanos are,” she says. We arrive at 5:15. The birthday girl and her family arrive at 5:30. We are hurried into the tiny church by a very annoyed “Padre,” and mass begins.

Estrella is the girl to be honored tonight, and she is dressed in a beautiful pink evening ball gown. She looks like a tiny princess. She sits quietly in front of the altar for the entire 30-minute mass. It probably would have been longer had we all shown up on time, but the next family is waiting for their own special mass outside the church doors.

Afterward, Coco, Chucho, and I go to the little girl’s party. It is held in a school, and there are tables to seat about 150 people. The banquet room has been decorated by Coco’s niece, Lily. Lily owns a party store in the Zocalo in Izucar. Decorating for parties such as these is one of Lily’s many talents. Pink and white balloons form arches and columns surrounding the dance floor; the tables have been covered in pink and white as well, each with a princess candle and princess balloons as centerpieces. The tres leches cake sits on the head table and is stacked in three fluffy white tiers, decorated in a variety of tropical fruits.  There is another large table filled with presents and gift baskets for not only the girl, but also her many guests. Lily's son, Diego, who turned five today, asks who is getting married. I don't blame him for his confusion, it looks a lot more like a wedding reception than a little kid birthday party.

Dinner is a chicken leg covered in a mole type of sauce – sweet and spicy. A side of spaghetti, garlic bread, and refried beans make for a deliciously interesting meal. And, for beverages, two liter bottles of Coke and Squirt are placed on the table, as well as a big bottle of tequila.

After dinner, the entertainment arrives. Payaso Yoyito, a very funny clown, gathers all of the children around and does a stand-up routine that even the adults enjoy, much like, Bill Cosby’s show, Kids say the Darnedest Things. Besides being hilarious, he impresses us all with his balloon sculptures – here he is on YouTube making Bugs Bunny http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Evd7pD--7iM

After the kid show, the DJ starts playing a variety of Salsa, Meringue, Bachata, and Cumbia, and the couples fill the floor. There is even a Spanish version of “My Achy Breaky Heart” in which everyone does a Latin version of the line dance – which just means they move their hips a lot more.

I meet all of Coco and Chucho’s family – both sides have been invited; Chucho’s mom and I dance the twist as Spanish versions of “Rock Around the Clock” and “Nothing but a Hound Dog” play loudly. Lily’s younger sister, who is studying to be a lawyer, loves American music (and sings it very well). She practices her English with me as she tells me of all the concerts she’s been to – Cranberries, Madonna, Guns and Roses, and Aerosmith in a few months!

They ask what I think of Mexico – and I am honest when I say I absolutely love this country. Yeah, the sidewalks could use some work, I step in dog poop a lot, and poverty is on every corner, but I love the people. Coco’s sister says it best when she shouts, “Estamos bien jodidas, pero bien felices!” which loosely translates – We may be damned, but we are happy. They are all intent on finding me a Mexican to marry so I can stay. We dance until 1:00 am when the little kids finally start passing out on lined-up folding chairs or in their parents' laps. It is one of the best evenings I have ever spent.

My induction class, by the way, wasn’t so bad, either. It lasted about two hours instead of three, and I recognized our instructor immediately as he works in one of our academic offices. He’s very attractive with big brown eyes and a nice, big smile. Today, I notice he also has strong, muscular arms and chest that fit nicely in his slightly too-tight T-shirt. He is a great teacher, involving the class in conversation; though, I keep my head down, praying I won’t have to answer any of his questions in my nervously broken Spanish. While my conversation skills have greatly improved, I still dread speaking in front of a lot of people.

I make it through and leave the class happy. Under the warm sun, I decide it is a gorgeous day for a walk. After about 15 minutes, I am sweating and decide to flag down the next combi I see.

The combi comes in about 5 minutes; I climb aboard and greet the passengers with a Buenos días. A familiar voice calls me by name, and there sits my instructor with about ten other passengers. As his stop nears, he passes up a bill to the driver, and says to me with that great smile, ‘Te pagué por tu pasaje” – he has paid my fair. I watch him exit and disappear into the crowded downtown area. Yeah, I think I could stay here for a while.