April Newsletter - Katie in Mexico

¡Sí, yo puedo!
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
April 2008
By Katie

Sí, yo puedo is my mantra in Mexico. It is what makes me similar and it is what makes me different. It is what helps me pull through tough days. It is how I rage against the parts of this culture that get under my skin. It is what makes me wonder about the way that I can choose to live my life upon my return. Sí, yo puedo. Yes, I can.
Sí, yo puedo as my identity
I am a gringa that sticks out like a sore thumb in Mexico. No questions about it. But the whole point of this year is to walk with my Mexican brothers and sisters, to try to be in solidarity with them and with their communities. I can observe, I can listen, I can question and discuss, I can imitate, and if I get really desperate to fit in I can even change my hair color. As it turns out, I am fortunate to have a daily opportunity to learn, imitate, and appreciate this culture while deepening friendships with my Mexican friends. Food.
My first weekend in Mexico I went to the pachanga to celebrate Marce’s mom’s 92nd birthday. It was a crazy weekend of so little sleep and so much activity that my mind was absolutely swimming in the culture shock and overload. What better time than that to be flung into the art of making tortillas? *rolling my eyes* This is no small task, nor is it easily mastered, nor is it a part of the meal that Mexicans regard with flippant apathy. This is the tortilla we are talking about, after all, the staple of the Mexican diet and culturally sacred and respected. Despite the intimidation factor and my own exhaustion, I gave tortilla-making a try and I didn’t do a very good job; I tried again and tore a little hole while laying it on the grill; tried again and a big piece ripped off on the edge; and I tried again and tried again and tried again… the rest is history. I can now proudly make tortillas, no holes and no rips, flipping them when necessary and knowing how to check for even cooking. My tortillas even inflate sometimes, which is the ultimate test of one’s tortilla-making skills (not to brag or anything). I do not have the speed or casual ease of an old pro like Marce or our friend Guille across the street. I don’t have the skill of the women I see working in restaurants or street stands to make all of my tortillas inflate like balloons. And I definitely do not have the desensitized fingertips of an expert and my fingers still suffer minor burns… but the point is that I try, I’m getting better, and my Mexican friends seem to love that I care to be a part of the process.
The one thing that trumps the act of trying to be an active and interested member of the kitchen is actually liking the food too. Next to Italians, Mexicans might be one of the proudest people of their cuisine and with good reason. There is a certain degree of obligation here to enjoy fresh tortillas, pozole, mole, or any other traditional dish. It is also obligatory to enjoy anything spicy. Here is Mexico, the chile reigns. If you don’t like it, well, thanks for visiting and would you please leave quietly so as not to disturb those of us enjoying the meal?
By mere fact of being a blonde and fair-skinned American, many doubt my interest in chile. At a recent birthday party, I got on a rant of “Si, yo puedo” with the host family which then became a fascinating sport during of putting spicy things in front of me to see what exactly I could eat and still enjoy. Of all the things that I was ranting about they most wanted to know if yes, I can eat salsas like they can. Whoops. The stubborn side of me ate everything, ignoring the pinpricks of sweat appearing on my forehead or a runny nose. The surprised and impressed looks on their faces were enough encouragement to keep me going like an 8th grader in the cafeteria taking bets from friends with disgusting cafeteria-food concoctions.
In examples like food and my participation in cooking, Si, yo puedo is a part of my identity that makes me blend in with the people here. To another extent this Si, yo puedo mentality is a part of my identity that sets me apart and makes me different. Yes, I can read and write, I can get a good public education, I can go to college, I can spend a year in a foreign country with no income, I can go visit other parts of Mexico with friends and family, I can cross the border between Mexico and the United States without having to walk across a desert and risk my life in the journey… Si, yo puedo is a testament to the benefits of being born a white, middle-upper class, woman from the United States. Without choice or effort, I was born into a privilege that sets me apart. Si, yo puedo makes me the same but I see that it also makes me very different.
Si, yo puedo as my lifejacket
Believe it or not, this experience for me is not always a Mexican paradise of warm weather, sun, palm trees, delicious food, and an easy-going lifestyle. Most of the time, I have 10-hour days of working with kids between 2 and 6 years old. I am their toy, their goofy playmate, and their jungle gym. I have to be active, smiley, patient, and enthusiastic the whole time. I have to take care of kids who know more swears than I do, kids that still wear diapers and already know how to beat someone up, kids that vomit, kids that pee their pants, and kids who don’t listen to a word I say and ask the same question a million times. But Si, yo puedo… Yes, I can give these kids my love because many of them don’t get enough at home. Si, yo puedo because there are worse ways to spend a day than playing with little kids. Si, yo puedo because the kids give me daily the gift of the sweetest smiles that I have ever seen. And even if their overly-enthusiastic hugs border on physical assault, they want to give me hugs and they want to love me back. Yeah, it is exhausting but it is also life-giving.
Fortunately, I get a much-needed break in my day to go home after my morning job to rest and eat with Marce before starting my second job. But even my time at home can be tiring. There is a feeling of host-daughterly duty to be present and talkative at home with Marce and Sarah who visits daily. I love their company and I know that they also are my confidants, saviors, supporters, and best friends here… but sometimes I just want to curl up with a book, something to eat, and a few hours of peaceful time to myself after these long days. But then I think again. I can give a few hours to my friends who are ready to come to my defense when I need another fighter in my corner, the shoulder to cry on, and a giver of a gentle hug when I miss home. I can give a few hours to Sarah who listens to me blabber on and on about my boyfriend, my work, the exciting moments in my day, and the things that bug me about being here in Mexico. Sarah is my understanding friend, who just gets me and is always ready to come to my rescue. I can give a few hours to Marce, the woman who takes care of me everyday, my teacher of swear words and other useful expressions in Mexican-Spanish, and my nurse who gave me three injections in the butt and watched over me when I had an intestinal infection in November. Marce is my Mexican mother in the many senses of the word. Yes, I can give a few more hours of my day to them.
Si, yo puedo as my battle cry against machismo
I remember reading alumni advice for both of my study abroad experiences. In both Italy and Mexico, former students complained about the machismo and catcalls and I always thought those anonymous writers were silly and thin-skinned for being bothered by it. I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “It is just a cultural difference and not worth getting bent out of shape. Anyway, you can just ignore it, right?”
For the first few months, I barely noticed the catcalls in Mexico. For those who have never been to Cuernavaca, it is a colorful city with windy and hilly roads with an over-stimulating array of people, places, and daily events to observe. Early in the year I was too busy making sure I didn’t get lost while trying to simultaneously enjoy the vibrant, new surroundings. After awhile, I became comfortable with my walking routes and I started to notice the machismo and catcalls but I chose to ignore it. After another couple months the male attention started bugging me so I would sarcastically respond with a “Gracias” under my breath to try to make a joke of what was starting to become quite irritating. Eventually the joke got old and useless, and now I want to flick-off every self-entitled machista out there who feels the insatiable need to make kissing sounds, call me his “beautiful queen,” tell me “I ouf you,” or brazenly offers an invitation to climb into his car (and Lord knows what else that invitation might entail). Machismo is an aspect of this culture that gets so deep under my skin that I nearly scream out loud in frustration. What right do you have to objectify me and talk to me like that?! Gross. I am reminded of my old self, “You can just ignore it, right?” The older and wiser me now chuckles and shakes my head, saying to myself, “Not after over 8 months, honey. Eventually you take notice.”
Never to be a woman to lay myself on the chopping block of patriarchy, machismo, or anyone who thinks they know my needs better than me… what to do? I am a rebel and fighter with a mile-wide stubborn streak, so I hold my head up high, send vicious looks, and sometimes go out of my way to prove a point. Because yes, I can.
Not to long ago I got myself in such a tizzy reflecting on machismo that I just had to prove a point, even if only to myself. Marce and I needed milk so I offered to buy the large shipping box that contains 12 smaller boxes of milk (1 liter each, so 12 liters in total). Marce told me I was nuts and it is way to heavy; I should just buy 4 individual boxes instead. I insisted that si, yo puedo and she allowed me to take enough money to buy all of it with a look on her face that reminded me not to be an idiot and to remember that just 4 will do. So I went for a long walk for exercise and then stopped by the grocery store on the home stretch. Without really thinking twice about it, I bought the full shipping box and proceeded to walk the half-mile back to my house carrying this (I’ll admit it) heavy box of 12 liters of milk. I did it with a defiant and determined smile on my face, thinking, “You see me?! Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean that I can’t be strong and capable of taking care of myself! Watch me do this!” I got home to a half-surprised Marce and our friend Sylvia. They got such a good laugh out of my rebellious streak of good ol’ fashioned feminism and my slightly ridiculous way of showing it. My arms were shaking and sore for the next few days, but I didn’t care. Si, yo puedo.
I also take advantage of every opportunity to break gender norms at school telling the kids that I like to wear blue more than pink, that I like sports, and that I think Spiderman is awesome. They think I’m weird and often reply with the same blank expression that I get when I get tongue-tied and speak bad Spanish to them. “What is Maestra Katy talking about?” I also try to break some gender roles in my host family to provide a living example of a different perspective. I tell them about playing soccer in Tepoztlan, accept a beer offered when only the men are drinking, and engage in conversations in the kitchen with the women just as often as conversations on sports or politics with the men. When the women say that they can’t do something I always insist that they can. Maybe they also stare at me blankly and wonder, “What is Katy talking about?” but I have a hidden hope that this whole Si, yo puedo mantra is contagious.

Si, yo puedo as my upcoming life challenge
This entire year has challenged me to consider the ways that I can use the perspectives and knowledge gained in Mexico to serve others when I return to the United States. What can I do with this year? I’m starting to realize that I can do almost everything and anything I want. Yes, I can is a powerful statement and it is one of the beautiful things of being born in the United States and having a wealth of opportunities and privileges. Knowing who reads this newsletter, I know that many of you have been blessed with the same benefits and abilities.
Unlike my Mexican brothers and sisters in Chiapas and Guerrero, I do not fear kidnapping in the dark of night, torture, and execution by an oppressive and corrupt government. I can come home and speak my mind (loudly) about this world’s injustices and how our government perpetuates many of them. I can create artwork that expresses my opinion. I teach others of my experiences. I can vote in November for a candidate that promotes social justice and responsible immigration policies. I can pursue jobs that can link me closer with the Latino community and their struggles. Yes, I can continue my involvement in the things I am learning this year.
The bigger question is not if I can do something with this year, it is if I will do something with this year. It should come as no surprise by now that I desperately strive to satisfy my own belief in serving others but now I recognize that the biggest obstacle in my path is actually myself. For all my preaching and passion I barely scratch the surface of taking advantage of the benefits of being US-American, financially stable, and educated. As I rephrase my own question to “What will I do?” I realize the depth of this challenge that I just presented to myself. Knowing that I can’t walk away from this challenge, I struggle to say Yes, I will with the same grit and determination of Yes, I can. It will mean more of my time, more of my heart given to the fight for justice, more dashed hopes, and more seemingly miniscule attempts to do my part to make this world a better place… but it is what I’m called to do. It will be hard, but Yes, I can and yes, I will.