November Newsletter - Sarah in Mexico

Sarah's November Newsletter

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I write this month’s newsletter with a profound sense of gratitude for life and all the giftedness that surrounds me. November has been a challenging month, but the faith, learning, and reflections that grow out of such challenge are deep, empowering and energizing. I’ve got three months under my belt and can see more clearly every day the way Mexico is becoming home to me.

The Power of Remembering…

“Nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love, and it would be wrong to try to find a substitute; we must simply hold out and see it through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation, for the gap, as long as it remains unfilled, preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; God doesn't fill it, but on the contrary, God keeps it empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other, even at the cost of pain.”
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer

The past month has been greatly affected by the sudden and inexplicable death of my dear friend, Katherine Olson. The separation and loneliness in Mexico has never been more real than the weeks that followed news of her death. I felt alone in my grief and yearned to be in the presence and comfort of family and friends. Though the longing to go home was very real, the call to stay here and share the journey of grief with my Mexican brothers and sisters was just as real. And it has been sheer gift to witness the way friends, strangers, and co-workers have reached out and strengthened me. I’ve been part of many powerful conversations that have freed me to be honest and helped me to see gifts of life and love. It’s clear that my vulnerability hasn’t turned people away, but has rather given many the freedom and comfort to share with me their stories of grief, pain, and weakness. Though the language difference sometimes feels like it has the power to isolate and hinder understanding, experiences of pain and death do not. Our mortality is a part of our being human—no matter our culture, language, religion, or social class. By sharing all the emotions that come with grief—tears, anger, questions, memories and love, the constructed boundaries of language and culture seem to dissolve, and our common humanity becomes so clear. Those are the most beautiful moments… when I look into the eyes of someone in Mexico and see myself.

Not only have the people in Mexico greatly supported me, but their culture and traditions have also brought deep healing and peace. One of the most powerful experiences for me has been the celebration of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Celebrated on All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day (November 1 and 2), Dia de los Muertos is a holiday in which Mexicans recognize deceased family and friends through colorful ofrendas (offerings), lively reunions at the cemetery, festive food, and traditional ceremonies. The holiday has its roots in pre-Hispanic culture, but today demonstrates a mix of indigenous and Christian traditions. Some Mexicans retain the traditional belief that the spirits of the dead actually pay a visit to the home during these days; others see it as a special time to remember and give thanks for the lives and legacy of the departed. Regardless, it is a day that creates space for remembering, sharing, and giving thanks.

The most widespread traditions of Dia de los Muertos are the building of ofrendas and the decorating of family burial sites at the cemetery. To create an ofrenda, families clear off a table in their home and cover it with bright orange marigolds, candles, sugar skulls, colorful cutout paper, and traditional sweet bread called pan de muerto. They also often include photos of their loved ones and a collection of their ancestors’ “favorites.” Books, quotes, games, cigarettes, tequila, fruits, and huge platters of chicken molé, tamales, beans, and tortillas are very common. Those who go to the cemetery usually make it an all day affair, decorating the grave with flowers and candles and feasting on the favorite foods and drinks of the dead. I was able to visit the cemetery in the afternoon—it was absolutely alive with people, flowers, firecrackers, blow horns, mariachi bands, candles, and tons of food! Quite a contrast for those of us accustomed to a solemn, formal, reserved ambience around the grave.

Though the customs and interpretations surrounding this holiday vary widely between families and regions, Dia de los Muertos clearly invites Mexicans to face, talk about, even celebrate human mortality. A fundamental belief in this culture is that, at any moment, we are just as close to life as we are to death; therefore, death is not something to ignore or fear, but something to acknowledge and embrace. Because Mexicans see death as the beginning of a new life, the mood of this holiday is vibrant, celebratory, and hopeful!

Dia de los Muertos couldn’t have been more timely, as Katherine died just days before. In no way could I have anticipated the way an unfamiliar holiday would speak to me so personally. On the day of Katherine’s funeral, the other YAGM volunteers and I gathered at Heidi’s apartment to take some time to remember. The traditions of Dia de los Muertos gave us a powerful and communal way to grieve, remember, and celebrate, as we decided to construct our own ofrenda. We covered Heidi’s dining room table with the traditional Mexican adornments and then added the names and favorite things of loved ones who have died recently. We took a couple hours to sit around the ofrenda and tell stories, cry, be silent, laugh, listen, pray. I shared some of my most treasured memories of both Katherine and Grandpa Roy, and it felt so helpful to have space in which to talk about them. One of the neatest parts was seeing the way in which the objects and photos on the ofrenda helped us recall special stories and personality quirks of each person. To keep those relationships and legacies alive is such a good, necessary part of grieving and healing. I think we unfortunately avoid talking about death and those who have died for fear of discomfort and tears, not recognizing how healthy it is to share our memories with others. I found deep, deep peace in taking part in the traditions of Dia de los Muertos, and hope it is a celebration I am able to continue when I return home.

No such thing as noise violations…

One of the most joyful parts about living in a foreign country is noticing and delighting in the small things. In many ways I feel like I’m viewing the world with the eyes and interest of a child. I’m more curious, observant, gullible, clueless, inquisitive, and easily amused. It’s a great way to live! These are some of the sights and sounds that grace my days in the neighborhood of Chipitlan...A precious man that’s got to be around 75 years old walks through the streets selling sweet bread from his gigantic sombrero every morning. He strolls at a pretty relaxed clip and hunches over in order to keep his sombrero level. It’s adorable. A friendly woman down the street makes homemade corn tortillas all day every day, and there’s something about the sound of her hands patting the dough back and forth that I just love. Because there is no such thing as scheduled “garbage pick-up” or “gas drop-off” days, we receive word that the trucks are in the neighborhood in a few untraditional ways: sometimes the drivers incessantly strike a loud, metal bell with a mallet, sometimes they use an unremitting horn or siren, and other times they play a recorded song, speech, or radio program out of a megaphone on top of the truck. It still feels awfully irritating and inefficient to me, but it works just fine here—scheduled pick-up days would probably be a complete disaster! Around 8:20 p.m. every night, the tamales man comes around the corner on his bicycle. He pulls a cart full of two huge pots of tamales and signals his arrival by singing “tamales” with absolute gusto—always with the same rhythm and same two pitches. You don’t have to know me very long to know I’m not much of an animal person, so it’s taking me awhile to adjust to the abundance of domestic and stray animals in the neighborhood. As I write this, I hear dogs barking, roosters screeching, our pet bird chomping on sunflower seeds, and a lizard squeaking in the corner of my room. They still give me the heebee-jeebies, but I’m developing tough skin and trying to move toward a place of gracious acceptance. I spend a good chunk of my evenings at Katie and Marce’s house (Katie’s another YAGM volunteer and Marce is her host mom). One of my favorite parts of being there is the sense of noisy and disruptive community that abounds in her street and home. The door is NEVER closed when she is home, and friends and neighbors pass by more often than I blink my eyes. We can hardly get through a conversation without someone yelling “Buenos días” from the alley, or stopping in to buy a kilo of sausage from Marce. To Marce, these interruptions are not inconvenient or annoying; they don’t slow her up from carrying on with her day—they are her day and her life and she wouldn’t want it any other way.

So, needless to say, the neighborhood is not quiet! I can’t help but think about how many times we would report “excessive noise” to the police if the same commotion occurred in our neighborhoods. Sometimes the noise still seems rude to me, like a violation of personal space and privacy, but that’s not even on the radar screen of most who live here. It’s not that Mexicans don’t value and respect personal space, but it’s that they value relationship and community just as greatly. It’s helping me see the way true communal living requires a willingness to be interrupted and needed at times when it’s not necessarily convenient.

And, yes, I do go to work…
Sometimes I get so caught up in my cultural experiences and personal reflections that I forget to mention my daily work in Mexico. Ha! I do go to work every day, though my jobs are anything but predictable and routine. In the past few months, I have accompanied Nuvia, a psychologist at CIDHAL, to technical high schools to lead sessions on sexuality and health, I’ve attended the presentation of a prestigious statewide award to Maestra Teodola, the charming woman with whom I work most closely in Coatetelco, I’ve made quesadillas with Lore, the custodian at CIDHAL, to serve to participants during one of our workshops, I’ve attended meetings with Maria Luisa to plan the annual cultural and fish fair in Coatetelco, I’ve led aerobics for a group of senior citizens in an indigenous community, I’ve assisted Paty, an architect, as she works with the construction of cisterns in Cuentepec, I’ve translated many articles and documents on gender and health, and I’ve listened to lots and lots and lots of stories. Much of my time has been spent in observation and conversation, and the relationships and learning that have grown out of that have been truly wonderful. I’m reaching the point in my experience where I feel more ready for direction and responsibility, so I’m in the midst of putting together a few projects with my supervisors. My hope is to facilitate workshops with Mexican and American young women through CIDHAL, and to help in recording the stories of the indigenous women in both communities I visit weekly. Though it’s challenging to not have a defined role or purpose, there’s incredible freedom to be creative and adventurous, and I love that every day is different than the last.

Peace and joy to all of you in this holiday season. As much as I am relishing in the beautiful “eternal spring” weather of Cuernavaca, I have to admit I am a bit nostalgic for snow, apple cider, Christmas carols, scarves, and homemade soup. It just doesn’t seem right to see Christmas lights on palm trees and plastic nativity sets on grass!

Know you are missed and dearly loved.

Peace,
Sarah