La basura

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.

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.

Cultural Faux Pas

I'm not going to lie; I am a horrible English teacher.

English as a second language (ESL) is way more difficult than teaching Spanish because I speak it without thinking. I have no idea how to teach when you should use "the" and when not.  I have no idea how to explain "it." "It" is cold. "It" is important. What is "it" anyway?

Today, I tried to fix the common error of a run-on sentence; I tell them commas are just not strong enough to separate sentences; you must use a period.  They haven't a clue what is coming out of my mouth, but know it must have something to do with a very awkward body-builder. At least I'm entertaining.

For the most part my classes are well-behaved, but I have a few students who get up and leave class whenever they want; they have a montón de excuses for missing class, and I cannot remember who is who, who needs what homework, and who will be absent on what day. I threaten to take points away, in Spanish, to make sure they understand, and wind up getting a lecture on the words "sacar" and "quitar." Apparently I used the wrong verb.

I gave a quiz this week; for the majority of the classes, I didn't even say anything as I noticed eyes wondering to their neighbors' papers. I'd cheat too if I were my teacher.

But I adjust my lessons, review better, and offer conversation classes where I can teach how I want and what I want. I use my poor Spanish to show them they shouldn't worry about their errors so much when speaking - it is possible to make mistakes and still communicate what you want to say.

I still remind myself everyday how lucky I am to be living in Mexico. But the honeymoon phasing out into culture shock.

The paperwork is killing me. I am drowning in writing that needs to be corrected. My email inbox is full, my edmodo website is screaming, read me, read me! I sit sola at the taco joint next to my house every night and correct papers along side my Coronita con limón. Coke with lime keeps my stomach healthy, and Corona, my mind.

Comida Típica de México. Dos Tostadas de bistec, Corona con sal y limón y un montón de papeles.

Last night as I attempted to tackle one more class of quizzes (they are so much easier to grade than essays), my boss, Coco, called to invite me out with some of our coworkers. She makes sure to call me anytime she is out with friends; I know she is worried about me.  I never turn down her invitations because I see them as the cultural opportunities I missed out on because I was grading papers. I show up at a restaurant and find the two Coco's (my personal Izucar tour guides), and two other women I recognize from my departmental meetings. Coco tells me they think I'm too serious. I'm pretty sure she means rude.

In Mexico, personal connections are far more important than the things you accomplish. You see it in the streets, the cafes; no one is in a hurry, and no one is ever alone. They sit in the city center (el Zocalo) and chat with family members; they discuss passionately over cups of cafés americanos in the local coffeeshop, literally fighting with their gestures to get their two cents in. Interruptions are welcome and expected.

You see it in the daily greetings. The custom for a woman is to shake the right hand of the other, lean in, touching cheeks with a slight kiss. Two men, however, will shake hands with their right and pat their companion's back with their left; if they are really close, they'll perform a secret handshake. Small talk is also expected in this interaction.

However, I find myself avoiding these confrontations. My Spanish is blunt and to the point - small talk is extremely hard for me; especially if I'm not sure I understand the questions they are asking. I have yet to master the bilingual mind, switching my brain from English to Spanish in a split second. It's normal for me to walk into class speaking Spanish when I should be using English and then afterward, ask the secretary for assistance in English and watch as her face crumple in confusion. I also am thinking two hours ahead, of all I need to accomplish today, and often times, I miss eye contact with fellow coworkers who expect the typical Mexican greeting. And to be honest, I feel incredibly superficial when I do partake in the ritual because I usually can't even remember the other person's name. I don't know if Asperger's can magically manifest when you cross cultures, but I'm pretty sure I scream socially inept.

After a few drinks and some delicious chicharrones (the rice cake type, not the actual pig skin kind) with chili sauce, I am comfortable with the small talk; Betty lives in Puebla and commutes an hour everyday. She is the school psychologist  and speaks fantastic Mexican slang. The other has long, gorgeous black hair, is single, and very outspoken - she is afraid she has offended me with her sexual innuendos and jokes. I think she is hilarious. We sing, we dance, and my new friends finally drive me home at three in the morning.

I see Betty today before my first class; her yawn is contagious and we both laugh at how awful we feel. I lean in, put my cheek to hers and give her a soft hug. And I mean it.