Convivir is not a word you can translate easily into English. The dictionary says "co-habitate," but for me, the translation is too cold and scientific to truly explain the meaning. The first time I heard this word was right after correcting un montón de compositions my first week at the university. Strange sentences kept popping up in every writing sample: "My family and I coexist every weekend." or "My family and I like to coexist." ¿Qué? You coexist? Don't we all coexist? So I asked a student how she would say it in Spanish. "You know, convivir!"
When you break it down you get two basic Spanish words "con" meaning "with" and "vivir" meaning "to live." So I can see where the google translator had led them astray. The best definition I can think of is "get together," but it feels like so much more.
In Mexico, nobody lives alone. They are conviviring all the time. In fact, my students and friends are shocked to learn I have not lived with my parents for 13 years (minus a few months of recuperating from a broken face).
My friends around the corner have a large seven bedroom casa in downtown Izucar. Not including Coco and her husband who live about 5 miles away, this household consists of a ten family members, six birds, a turtle, and three fish (one died the other day). There's Abuelita Juanita that rules the household, her son, daughter and son-in-law, four grandchildren ages 21, 28, 29, 31, a girlfriend, and great grandson. Of course it saves a ton of money to live together, but I really don't think this is the reason at all. They just truly can't imagine living alone. They have even given me a bedroom to sleep in when we stay up too late singing karaoke.
As Thanksgiving was approaching, I was feeling a little down. Mexicans don't celebrate this holiday, because they were invaded by the Spanish, rather than the Pilgrims, and schools here do not sugar-coat the eradication of their country's native people as our history books tend to do. (For a more accurate bedtime story, see A People's History by Howard Zinn.)
Most years, I don't dwell on the sad true history of Thanksgiving; normally, I go to my aunt and uncle's house for lunch, and then to Grandpa's for dinner, say what I am thankful for, and eat a lot of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and corn. And of course, we convivimos. This year, I had to work from 1 pm to 8 pm, eating tacos for lunch and planning on a street vender cheeseburger for dinner (don't get me wrong, this guy's spicy burgers are to die for).
But before I went to class, Coco informed me that her mother and sister wanted to have a Thanksgiving dinner for me; they knew this would be a difficult holiday without my family. So, while I taught how the Pilgrims and Indians celebrated their first Thanksgiving happily together, giving thanks for all they had harvested (Yep, I'm a hypocrite), the women of the house prepared an amazing feast with a Mexican twist. Instead of warm bread, we ate warm tortillas; jello salad was replaced with pico de gallo, the gravy - spicy salsa verde and an even more picante salsa roja, mashed potatoes was a garlicly pasta, and the main dish - 3 beautiful hens stuffed with olives, peppers, and other bright green and red veggies. They truly did try and find a turkey, but apparently they all jumped the border into the US this month.
Salsa, salsa, and more salsa.
When I looked at the colorful feast and the people surrounding it, a rolling wave of emotion crept up from my heart, into my throat and behind my eyes, threatening to ruin my Mexican blue eye makeup. The amount of time and energy put into this dinner, and it was all for a crazy gringa who happened to share a love for karaoke.
I couldn't speak, so I sat quietly and focused on my delicious meal. My friends smiled at me, but saved their questions until I was ready to talk. They understood.
Later we set up the microphone and computer, and sang our favorite songs displayed on YouTube. It wasn't a traditional Thanksgiving but it reminded me of what is most important about Thanksgiving: convivir.
Washington DC. August 2011.
Only 4 of the 6 US teachers will continue on to the next semester.
First, I want to refer you to my disclaimer in the right hand margin.
Here. I will restate it just in case.
This website is not an official U.S. Department of State website. The views and information presented are the grantee's own and do not represent the Fulbright Program or the U.S. Department of State.
If you've happened upon my blog, it may seem like a Fulbright Teacher Exchange is an incredible experience. For me, it has been for the most part. But before you decided to apply for a Fulbright - here are a few things you should consider before signing your 9-month contract.
In the 2011-2012 year, six US teachers and seven Mexican teachers were selected to participate in this program. We were told it would be hard; we would deal with issues that may seem ridiculous and crazy.
And they were right.
We met in November for our "Midterm" conference and hashed out some of the problems we were having.
Here are the top five complaints I heard (and some, I have experienced myself). I have ranked them by severity rather than prevalence. Of course, this is from my perspective, not from my fellow Fulbrighters.
5. Everything is just harder. Whether it is finding an apartment, trying to connect to the internet, leaky roofs, learning the garbage route, or how to turn on your pilot light so you can finally take a warm shower, you will experience frustration every single day. Jeez, just trying to communicate will give you a headache. But do it. Learn to depend on others, ask for help, get recommendations and phone numbers for the gas guy and a good plumber. Then find the gym or a recreation center to work out the rest of your frustrations.
4. Location, location, location. Not every city in Mexico is a cultural mecca with traditional food, grand cathedrals and architecture, and indigenous mysteries and superstitions. In fact, you may find yourself in a suberb of Arizona, like one friend of mine. Make the best of your time by meeting great people instead, and save, save, save so you can take a plane ride to those magical places while you are here.
3. Work. We were told working in a university would be easy compared to a US high school. I thought for sure I'd be on a yearlong vacation with not having to deal with 4 levels of Spanish and almost thirty students in each class. Not true. I have 5 groups of 25 students each. I only teach one level. BUT the program is intense with a rigid curriculum of writing. I have little room to incorporate Gardner's Multiple Inteligience theory in my instruction, no games, no fun. I am so that boring professor I hated in college. And it is nothing for me to spend 3 extra hours a day correcting compositions on top of 5 hours straight of teaching, 1-2 hours of tutoring, and 1-2 hours of prep. Every. Single. Day.
And if you work in a public school, you may have large classes of 40+ (especially in public secundarias (middle schools) or prepas (high schools). Mexican public schools are a lot like inner-city public schools in the US. Parents that care about education send their children to private schools, so you are left with 40 low socio-economic students who have not learned the value of education, and who deal with drugs, crime, and abuse daily. Not exactly a place where an English teacher from the US will feel successful at the end of the day. Research your school before you agree to an exchange - and even visit if possible.
2. Loneliness. Your counterpart is required to put together a support team for you including a mentor who should be working directly with you. In the US, this mentor is paid a stipend and receives a trip to the International Fulbright Teachers Conference in October. Mexican mentors receive nothing. While the majority of the teachers I have met are friendly, these teachers are overworked and underpaid. They may not have time to help you, or may feel bitter they are asked to do more for no compensation. Don't expect them to reach out to you; YOU have to make the connections, maybe offer something in return - and being a newbie in a foreign land, this is tough.
1. Violence. (Mom, Dad, stop reading).
The State Dept. issues warnings for the most dangerous places you should not visit in Mexico, but that doesn't mean all of the rest of the cities are safe. Poverty and unemployment are abundant which means crime is expected in most areas. Usually, it is nonviolent muggings and robberies. Perfect strangers will tell me to hold on to my bag tighter so I'm not robbed. No one lets me walk after 9 at night, even if it's just around the corner and the street is bustling. Luckily, I haven't had any issues but almost everyone here has had a cellphone, purse or computer stolen from them at one point.
Other areas are not so fortunate. Drug violence, of course, is a potential danger, but there are other issues as well. Political action here isn't quite like the Occupy movement in the states. Teachers unions here are known to get out of hand, violence and chaos could be likely - especially in Oaxaca. In 2006, over 20 people were killed including one American journalist during a teacher union protest in this gorgeous city.
There is also a new radical group called Individuals Tending To Savagery who have modeled themselves after the Unabomber Ted Kaczyncsky mailing a bomb to the Polytechic University of Hidalgo. Luckily, my friend and co-Fulbrighter, was not on campus this day.
Kidnappings are a popular way to earn money; pets, husbands, wives, babies...whoever they can nab quickly. Most often, once the ransom has been paid, your loved one will be returned; however, one fulbrighter has neighbors who weren't so lucky. If the family member is returned safely, the criminals have your phone number and will call you periodically, threatening to repeat the crime (or worse) if you do not pay them again. You are in their debt for life. Police are scarce and underpaid due to the absence of public funds. Corruption is everywhere and there is not much hope for help. The US teacher who lives in a place like this will be returning to the US next month for good.
Take advice from the locals seriously, and research your city before you go; do not expect Fulbright to do it for you.
Now that I have scared you from applying for this program, please re-read my other blogs. Mexico is a HUGE country and the majority of it is an amazingly, magical place. Be smart, friendly, and open-minded. After all, it is an adventure, right?
A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to attend a fiesta for a young girl's 15th birthday. This is a special day honoring the passage from childhood to womanhood. I had heard these parties were extravagant, and probably more expensive than a traditional wedding. Even with this background knowledge, I was still amazed.
It begins with a "thanks giving" mass.
The girl walks in behind the priest and is followed by her parents, godparents, and seven boys chosen as her "chambelanes". The mass lasts about 45 minutes ending in the girl giving her bouquet as an offering to the Virgin Mary as Ave Maria echos through the church.
After the mass, everyone gathers in a amazingly decorated reception hall. The banquet will serve about 200 guests.
We were served a delicious creamy almond soup, manicotti and cake (those presents are actually cakes!)
After the main dish, the honored girl and her chambelanes are introduced. Her mother is a coworker of mine; she too looks beautiful and gives a speech that leaves most of us in tears. Then, they start the party with the first dance.
After this introductory baile, they perform a waltz. (coming soon - youtube is not cooperating)
Afterwards, the quinceñera also addresses the crowd, thanks her mother and her godparents for raising her so well. She invites the crowd to dance. The family has hired the craziest performance group I have ever seen. At first, they sing some popular songs in both English and Spanish, but as the night goes on, they liven up the crowd with all kinds of tricks and treats. They have costumes, party favors, and much, much more.
I don't like to complain on my blog because I know my issues are petty compared to the people who actually live here and deal with much bigger problems (poor wages, corruption, crime, etc). But I do want to share some of the idiosyncrasies of this great country that some days make me laugh and other days want to scream obscenities from my window.
Many services here are not found in stores but rather in trucks rolling down the street, announcing their presence with loud piercing speakers. For example, the gas guy has a catchy tune that I like to sing along to every morning. The song reminds me of the Muppet Show theme song, and is followed by a long drawn out "Gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhsssss" that swoops up melodically at the end. When you no longer have hot water, you simply wait for the tune, flag down the driver, and the guy hauls the tank of gas up to your apartment on the third floor.
Some nice fellow on YouTube managed to capture it; listen to this everyday for 3 months in a row and you'll be singing along too...
The bread truck is my absolute favorite, though, and makes me giggle every time I hear his catchy tune.
So, why then, can't the trash guy have a cool jingle to announce his arrival?
In Izucar, there are no dumpsters to put your trash in and no bins outside the buildings. If you really want to tick off your neighbors, you can leave the bags out for the stray dogs to rip apart, but nobody wants to be "that guy" in the apartment. So you have to listen for a rusted tinny bell that a guy clangs down the street about 3 minutes before the truck actually passes. Then, you and your neighbors scurry to collect all your bags, run down three flights of stairs and then stand in line to hand your collection to the garbage man who throws it in the truck.
The first time I heard the bell, I was also waiting for the señorita that does my laundry. I dropped my bag of clothes in the hall, scrambled up the 32 stairs, grabbed my two large bags of trash, ran back down the stairs, just in time to see my neighbor look at my laundry bag of two-weeks-worth of clothes as if he were going to throw it in the trash!!
I don't have a lot of trash; I don't cook and so, therefore, it is mostly just a few take-out boxes. Oh, and have I mentioned I can't flush toilet paper?? (Sorry if that was too much info, but I feel you need to know the small details before you decide you should move here too).
It would just be nice to not have to have one ear out the window each morning (and afternoon) when I become paranoid that my mini cockroaches will tell their bigger friends that I have plenty of goodies to offer them. No one in my neighborhood seems to know when and what day the garbage truck will pass; the first time, it was a Thursday at 11:00 am, and the last time was a Wednesday at 1:30 pm. I could barely hear the bell over the noise of la calle (street). Luckily, my building super yelled "BASURA, BASURA!!" and I was finally able to take out my 3 weeks of trash I had accumulated.
So there it is. I write about how much I love living in this beautiful country, but truthfully, sometimes Mexico stinks.
It was impossible to catch a combi this past week. Starting October 26th, my usual
route was blocked by a marketplace specifically set up for the Day of the Dead.
This market stretched almost 5 blocks, crowding the streets with sugar skulls, catrinas and calaveras, miniature ofrendas,
and brilliantly gold and purple cempasuchil
(very large marigolds). You also have your hojaldras
(delicious bread served only this time of year), fruits, candles of all colors
and sizes, and I even found some chapulines
to share with my students. Surprisingly, many of them were grossed out by the
fact I enjoyed eating the crunchy, little critters.
Catrina in the plaza of Izucar
My very own Catrina bought at the market.
Little mini ofrenda bought in the market.
Sugar skulls
Scary skull in the plaza
This special market takes place to prepare for a most
amazing holiday, Día de los Muertos.
Because I am a Spanish teacher, I had a little background on this famous
celebration. It is a ritual that dates back before the Spanish Conquest.
Therefore, you see many pagan traditions passed on from the indigenous Aztec
culture sweetly blended into the Catholic customs complete with crosses, La
Virgen and Jesus Cristo.
Families can buy their food, flowers, and adornos to decorate their ofrendas – usually a 3-tiered display
symbolizing the life of a recently deceased love one and the faith of the
family. My students tell me if I am going to spend Día de los Muertos in the state of Puebla, I have to visit the town
of Huaquechula, which is about 30 minutes from Izucar. A quiet girl speaks up;
Huaquechula has become very touristy and if I really want a traditional
experience, I should visit her town, Cacaloxuchitl which is only 5 minutes from
Huaquechula. I tell Coco this, and Nov. 1st, la familia and I pack up and take off for a Día de los Muertos adventure.
We arrive in Cacaloxuchitl at 5:00 with empty stomachs. I was told to not eat anything beforehand because we would eat about a week’s worth when we arrived. I am hungry. As we enter the town we are greeted by a “trick or treater”, a boy about 11 years old, in an ugly monster mask with a bucket. Jorge, our driver, gives him a few pesos. We continue on and realize we have no idea where we are suppose to go. Jorge yells out the window at a few boys standing on the corner. “Dónde están las ofrendas?” he asks – Where can we find the ofrendas? The boys respond with “Hay un chingó allá” pointing down the street. We laugh at the phrase – it’s kind of like saying “There’s a sh*tload down the street!” to perfect strangers. Jorge tells me this is typical banter of small villages such as this.
However, the vulgar-mouthed boys guided us perfectly – we begin seeing trails of marigold petals, beginning in a cross in the street and then leading visitors (and the deceased loved ones) into various houses. We follow the first orange path into a rustic yard – tables and chairs have been set up, dogs and turkeys walk freely around, taking part in the festivities as well. I almost trip as I try to avoid stepping on a baby chic. The dueña de la casa invites us to follow her. Her hair is pulled back in a long graying braid; she is probably in her seventies.
She takes us into a very simple room with cement walls and floor; on one side of the room chairs are lined up for visitors and on the other, a magnificent altar stands in memory of both her daughter and her grandson. I learn that these types of altars are created for those who have died in the past year. Her grandson passed away in March of this year, and her daughter two months later. Los poblanos believe the spirits of their loved ones are in limbo in this year, still between earth and heaven; the altars are designed to guide them back to their home one last time, which explains the trail of marigolds.
Combining indigenous and Catholic traditions, altars are made of three levels. Each level is decorated with flowers and delicately cut papel picado. The first level represents “earth,” and traditional food and drink that the deceased enjoyed are placed to tempt the loved ones to return and enjoy. Tamales, hojaldras, pipían, mole, and various fruits cover this first level, in addition to cigarettes (if the person smoked), and tequila, mezcal, and/or Mexican cerveza.
papel picado
The second level of the altar represents the magical place between earth and heaven and is decorated in brilliant flowers, candles, and a 10’’ x 7’’ picture of the loved one. Many of the photographs that we saw were photo-shopped so that the person appeared to be walking in a garden, with a beam of light on them as if guiding them to heaven. On some, statues of crying angels stood guarding the photo.
The third level represents heaven, and there is usually a religious painting of La Virgin, a statue of Jesus Cristo, or a cross.
Along with marigolds, incense and candles stand at the base of the altar, lighting the path for the deceased.
Each major at UTIM builds elaborate altars honoring a Mexican hero
A montón of marigolds.
What is an ofrenda?
We pay our respects to the woman’s family. Coco makes “a
sign of the cross” and kisses her thumb as she finishes the gesture. The señora leads us back into the patio and
tells us to enjoy some of the wonderful food they have prepared. All of the
women in the family are working hard; some making tortillas over an open fire,
two are stirring enormous pots of mole and the others are busy preparing
tamales for the visitors.
Café - with sugar and a lot of caffeine.
Making tamales
Bowls of mole poblano
are brought to our tables, also, aguas
made from sweet fruits, and of course, warm tortillas. We eat, give our thanks
and continue on to the next casa.
In this small town, thirty-six altars were created this year
– thirty–six loved ones passed away in just this past year. We visit two more, an older man in his
seventies who is mourning the loss of yet another son, and another family
remembering their sweet abuelita
(grandmother). We eat pipían – a
green mole sauce made from pumpkin seeds over a chicken leg - and tamales
wrapped in cornhusks. I am so full, but the family tells me it is a “grosería” (insult) to refuse to eat. So
I eat another tamal.
En memoria de un hijo (son).
Altar in memory of an abuelita (grandmother).
These families are very poor, yet immediately after someone
in the family has died, they begin saving their money to prepare for these
altars and the grand feast. They could spend up to 30,000 pesos (about $3000), inviting complete strangers to meet and pay
respects to their loved ones. These people believe the dead truly return – Lily
tells me stories she has heard, food disappearing, candles flickering
strangely. Superstition is as strong as the Catholic faith here.
Afterwards we travel to Huaquechula where there is a huge
festival, with traditional Mexican folk dances, rides and games for children,
and a market place selling a variety of Día
de los Muertos souvenirs. The altars here are famous around the world I
find out as I run into five Americans also taking in the spectacular tradition.
Altars in Huaquechula cost thousands of dollars to build.
Ballet Folklórico en Huaquechula
We take an alternative route home and decide to visit one
more town with altars. A woman guides us into a small room with an altar
dedicated to her husband. Her eyes are red; I can tell she has been crying. I
read the sign by his photo – August 27, 2011. This is a week after I arrived in Mexico, which seems like
only yesterday.
The last altar we visit is a family celebrating the life of
their grandmother. They are happy and pass around a bottle of tequila. They
offer us candied pumpkin and atole
– which is a sweet rice pudding-like substance. I thought I couldn’t eat anymore but I ended up
enjoying THREE cups of this amazing stuff!
The next day Coco’s family invites me to the November 2nd Día de los Muertos tradition in Izucar’s
panteón (cemetery). On this day, the tradition
continues, taking the flowers, food, and candles from the altar to
the graves of the loved ones. Doña Juanita (Coco’s mother) carries a large
bouquet of cempezuchitl and a small,
torn prayer book. Coco and her sister carry 2 large candles.
When we get to the cemetery, I am shocked at the amount of
people. The place is packed with families, eating and even drinking Modelo
around the gravesites. The afternoon sun is powerful; everyone carries umbrellas,
and venders sell popcicles and ice cream in the paths between the tombs. Some
family members have hired Mariachi bands to play for their relatives. The
tradition of Coco’s family is much more simple and sweet. We visit five tombs,
Doña Juanita leads us in prayers of the rosary, and we end in a joyous song,
which Diego sings at the top of his lungs.
As a Spanish teacher, I thought I knew a lot about the
Mexican culture, and particularly about Día
de los Muertos. But after experiencing the kindness, generosity, and faith
of these people, I realize I have a lot more to learn.
