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.
