“The End is Coming”
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
May 2008
By Katie
No denying it, time is flying and bringing me closer and closer to the end of my year in Mexico. With that realization comes a mix of emotions that seems to ebb and flow several times each day from one extreme to the other. I have a difficult time articulating this current state of confusion and contradiction and constant change; but nonetheless, as many friends, coworkers, and family members start asking me about what “the end” feels like to me, I will take a stab at the impossible and try to make sense of the muddled emotions swimming through my brain. As a visual and graphic learner myself, I present to you a visual metaphor by using a familiar Taoist symbol: the yin yang.
The yin-yang represents the opposing duality of two energies, each very distinct but also interconnected. The two sides compliment and transition into the other and the whole circle emerges. One energy cannot exist without the other. July 9th. One day. “The end.” Two very different and separate worlds of emotions and realities, yet one side does not exist without the other. Together, “leaving Mexico” and “returning home” create the whole, “the end.”
Leaving Mexico
I moved to Cuernavaca last August and have spent the past ten months or so creating a life here. I was welcomed into a Mexican host family, a wonderful one at that, and I continue to develop and evolve in our relationships. I stepped foot into very challenging and rewarding job sites. Both jobs pushed me to struggle through my misguided attempts to serve a community that I didn’t understand; confront my inadequacies; come to terms with the fact that I can’t change the community (or the world); adapt to work within and be a part of those communities; and to find joy and love in accepting the communities as they are. Meanwhile, I formed silly friendships with my coworkers. I grew to crave the moments of children’s unconditional love, wonder, and innocence that they share with me daily through a hug or smile or small success in class. I made friends with other gringos and Mexicans and find so much pleasure in our opportunities to meet and share an afternoon or an evening together. I walked this journey with four other volunteers and my country coordinator who have all served as my rocks, my breaths of fresh air, the guiding light at my feet, and the tides that pull me to new realizations and perspectives. I learned the intricate map of shortcuts and scenic routes of southern Cuernavaca; the good stands in the market; my favorite hideouts downtown to get a (cheap) coffee or beer or bite to eat; and numerous ways to blend in like a local despite my blonde hair and light eyes.
Not all of it has been bliss and I have struggled to find peace in the cross-cultural conflicts of day-to-day life in Mexico. I had an unbelievably difficult time adjusting to my work sites and letting go of my US-American expectations of what “education” should look like. Although I am more flexible with the inconsistencies at my work sites, my work still continues to raise my blood pressure and leave me exhausted at the end of the day. On some days I love the slow pace of not having plans and a “what’s the rush?” attitude… other days that mentality tests my US-American patience and leaves me irritated and thinking to myself “there is so much else I could be doing right now.” I still despise machismo and feel like I am on the verge of clinical insanity caused by excessive catcalls, unwanted attention, and objectification. I am looking forward to not having to question the “safety” of food at restaurants or street-stands, or having to disinfect almost every piece of produce at home with iodine drops. I’m looking forward to not getting some sort of digestive illness and inevitably wind up stupefied, not knowing what caused it or how to treat it. Leaving Mexico will be more heartbreaking than anything… but I would be a liar if I didn’t say that it might also be a slight relief.
Soon I will leave this place with never-fading summer warmth; flowers continually in bloom; loud traffic and stifling exhaust; bustling markets of noisy vendors, fresh vegetables, fruits and meats; a pace that slows and morphs for any unexpected visitor or invitation; and simple living and simple pleasures. Soon I will say goodbye to the kids who hugged me, played with me, and pulled me through the dark days. Soon I will say goodbye to the volunteers who understand this year on a level that I can never fully express to my friends and family back home. Soon I will say goodbye to Marce, my confidant, my nurse, my friend, my Mexican mother and loyal caretaker.
Denial: I’m knee-deep in it… no, better yet, I’m luxuriously bathing in it. I am starting to slowly ponder how “leaving” will affect me, but I will openly admit that my thoughts are almost completely wrapped up in enjoying my last weeks and the daydreams of returning to the things I’ve missed from home. Time is moving quickly now and no amount of mental or emotional preparation will save me from some tears, heartache, and the occasional longing to stay in Mexico. Soon I will confront the reality of saying goodbye, boarding a bus to the airport, and spending five hours in flight that will take me from one side of the yin yang to the other.
Returning Home
To be completely honest, I’ve been looking forward to my return home ever since the beginning of my time in Mexico. Even during the most marvelous and joyful days in Mexico, I have still felt ties to the pieces of home that are so much a part of me. I have always looked forward with excitement and anticipation for the reunification with those things. I lack the words to describe how soul-lifting it will be to see my family and friends; how grounding it will be to feel my feet in the grass at my parents’ home or in the sand by the lake; how encouraging and reassuring it will be talk with those of you who have been following my journey (for which I am eternally grateful); how centering it will be to return Madison and spend a sunny afternoon on the Terrace with friends; how energizing it will be to go for scenic runs, bike rides or swims; and how spiritually enriching it will be to walk into Bethany Lutheran where I know the faces, where I know the hymns, and where I can always find a piece of myself and my faith.
In almost every way, I am deeply and genuinely excited to return home. That being said, I also have to recognize the difficulties awaiting me. Coming home might be a very isolating experience as I haphazardly navigate my way through reverse culture shock. I fear my own inability to relate to US-American culture; I fear my inability to relate to others; I fear others’ inability to relate to me; I fear my inability to articulate what this year really means to me. I fear the confrontation with the pieces of US-American culture that run counter to my post-Mexico self (some which that never felt right to me before; others will be new to me after this experience).
As I re-transition into the United States, I will attempt to find a way to build a grounded, healthy, and soul-satisfying life in which my Mexican self can breathe and grow within my US-American environment. This is my greatest aspiration for my future and leaves me wondering what that obstacle-ridden journey will look like. What decisions can I make that honor and acknowledge how this year has changed me? How can I share with others my Mexican experience and new perspectives with grace? How can I find an open and spiritually-honest lifestyle that finds a balance between my Mexican self and my US-American self? I certainly have hopes for certain Mexican lessons and philosophies I want to bring home, but keeping them in practice will be challenging when so many of them do not easily fit into US-American way of living. Unfortunately, in this world we cannot always cherry-pick from our favorite places, foods and flavors, holidays and traditions, social interactions, and mentality (of ourselves and others) and surround ourselves only with the things that make our souls sing and rejoice. Life is sometimes not what we hope it will be. I cannot wave a magic wand and change certain parts of US-American culture to fit the measure and rhythm of my post-Mexican self. Nor would I want to change it. But I can hope, pray, and attempt to maintain those pieces of my post-Mexican self that bring me life and joy.
This hope of mine reminds me of the book I am currently reading, Plan B: Further thoughts on faith by Anne Lamott. In one chapter she references a man named A.J. Muste who stood in front of the White House during the Vietnam War with a candle every night. A reporter once asked him if he believed that standing with a candle would actually change the government’s policies. He replied, “I don’t do it to change the country, I do it so the country won’t change me.” Oooo, I like that. Let’s see that one again: “I don’t do it to change the country, I do it so the country won’t change me.”
I may not hold candles at night, but I might march or protest for immigration reform. I might spend time during the summer volunteering in the desert with No More Deaths (No Más Muertes). I might pride myself on making handmade tortillas and savor the Mexican flavors I can recreate at home. I might throw my To-Do list out the window and change plans to make time for an unexpected call from a friend or family member – as my Mexican brothers and sisters teach me, sometimes our time is the greatest gift we can give. After beginning to consider some of the lifestyle choices that I can make, I hope that I have the strength and determination to firmly grasp onto the choices that allow me to put my feet on the path that I preach. And I won’t do it to change the country (or my friends, or family, or neighbors); I’ll do it so the country won’t change me.
Conclusion
Just like the yin-yang, I am currently feeling an opposition and a duality between “leaving Mexico” and “returning home.” Each side is distinct and each carries distinct fears, expectations and hopes. At the same time, I cannot have one without the other. It will be a difficult transition for me, probably in more ways that I can begin to imagine; nonetheless, I am also greatly looking forward to seeing you all on the flip side of the yin-yang come July.
Photos: http://picasaweb.google.com/klgavle
Blog: http://klgavlemexico.blogspot.com/
Showing posts with label Mexico. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mexico. Show all posts
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Jenny's Mexican Adventures Vol. V - Mexico en la Piel
Hello all,
Happy June! I hope this finds you all happy and healthy. As my time here in Mexico begins to wind down (in days, not in the fullness of the experience!), I find myself a bit torn between these two worlds, and quite torn emotionally, feeling both joy in the anticipation of returning, and deep sadness in the idea of leaving all of this behind.
Ten months as a Cuernavaca resident, and this place and these people have become a part of me. (And, dare I say it, I even see myself as part of this crazy, beautiful reality.) This volume's title, "Mexico en la Piel", means "Mexico in the skin." As such, please allow me to take this opportunity to explain part of what I love so much about here, in some sort of effort to articulate what I mean when I say that
I will truly miss this. (As always, these are generalizations based on my own personal experiences here, which does not mean they hold true for every Mexican, nor "false" for every U.S. American.)
There are so many simple, cultural things that I treasure…
- Mexican hospitality and open invitations that allow one to be invited into the culture, the sharing of spaces and stories, the entire concept of "convivir" (living together- more accurately translated as sharing lives.) Mexicans value a "fiesta" culture; life can get so hard so fast, they take almost any opportunity to celebrate, be it a birthday, a baptism, or a Thursday.
- Hand-made ("hecho a mano") tortillas. Not only are they delicious, but they are the stereotypical Mexican food for a reason-employing Mexico's staple crop of corn, they are the literal base for most Mexican food, even doubling as utensils. (Mexicans often break tortillas into small pieces and sort of scoop up the accompanying meat, beans, etc. like a spoon. As a bonus, it makes washing the dishes that much easier.)
- Pride. Mexicans are a proud people, well-versed in their history and traditions. Given that every pueblo has a patron saint, that there are altars dedicated to the Virgin of Guadalupe on every other corner, and that just about everyone has an oversized Mexican flag ready to display for Independence Day, this is no small feat.
- Slang and playfulness in speech, an assumed sense of humor even in the sense of interacting with a gringa such as myself.
- The absence of over-preparedness. Mexicans tend to buy things only when they need them, even to the extent of going to the store to buy 1 diaper. In our world of Costco and stocking up in case of any possible nuclear fallout or mere power outage, this "live as life comes" attitude is something I find refreshing.
- Going hand in hand with the above, I'm happy to say that parts of Cuernavaca still operate in a smaller, local economy. While bigger chain stores are making their ugly way into the market, there are still many "mom and pop" convenience stores and restaurants that line our roads and fill the infamous Mercado, bringing fresher foods to our table and supporting our neighbors' businesses.
- An uncanny ingenuity to reuse or make due given what one's got. Our fridge is filled with rinsed-out sour cream containers instead of Tupperware (which often has the comic effect of having to open 6 to find the salsa you were looking for), and a friend of mine jokes that he can build or fix anything with packing tape. I marvel at how efficient and creative the people here are.
As a result of the above, and so much more, I find myself changed in ways that both surprise and rejuvenate me. I'm more relaxed, I try to keep my priorities a bit more "in check", and my view of the world has gotten just that much bigger. I have learned so much more about the relationship between the U.S. and Mexico, and am deeply interested in the roles that we play in the reality of our neighbors here. This includes…
- Immigration, not only how we interact with immigrants, but also our role in their economic reasons for making the journey.
(http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/02/us/politics/02penn.html?_r=1&ex=1207886400&en=8f2f2406784ef9c0&ei=5070&emc=eta1&oref=slogin,
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/24/us/24immig.html?ex=1212292800&en=be30054cd7b280d5&ei=5070&emc=eta1,
http://www.sojo.net/index.cfm?action=magazine.article&issue=soj0709&article=070910,
http://www.nomoredeaths.org)
- NAFTA and U.S.-Mexican commerce in general: globalization & market
domination, maquilas & work conditions, etc.- yes, our purchase choices do matter! (http://fairlabor.org/, http://nffc.net/,
http://en.maquilasolidarity.org/).
- The U.S.'s role in educating and training Latin American military officials and presidents at the School of the Americas and universities such as Harvard, and the implications when those whom we educated or trained commit human rights violations and other offenses against their people. Also, the continued governmental and military "aid" from the U.S., such as the proposed "Plan Mexico." (http://www.soaw.org/,
All of these issues are complex, and I am still learning about all of the interplay, so please don't just take my word for it. I ask for your help in exploring these issues, and in keeping me accountable as well. Also, while I am ever more conscious of my/our role(s) in all of this, I do recognize the obvious importance of Mexico's own government, military, corporations, and citizens, as well as the roles of corruption and poverty which further aggravate these conditions.
So, my dear ones, in many ways I feel like I have fallen in love with Mexico, even with all of its faults, and my true hope lies in my carrying over this "Mexican" reality back into my old/new/mixed U.S. reality in a few short weeks. I invite you all to continue this journey with me.
With love and immense gratitude,
Jenny
Happy June! I hope this finds you all happy and healthy. As my time here in Mexico begins to wind down (in days, not in the fullness of the experience!), I find myself a bit torn between these two worlds, and quite torn emotionally, feeling both joy in the anticipation of returning, and deep sadness in the idea of leaving all of this behind.
Ten months as a Cuernavaca resident, and this place and these people have become a part of me. (And, dare I say it, I even see myself as part of this crazy, beautiful reality.) This volume's title, "Mexico en la Piel", means "Mexico in the skin." As such, please allow me to take this opportunity to explain part of what I love so much about here, in some sort of effort to articulate what I mean when I say that
I will truly miss this. (As always, these are generalizations based on my own personal experiences here, which does not mean they hold true for every Mexican, nor "false" for every U.S. American.)
There are so many simple, cultural things that I treasure…
- Mexican hospitality and open invitations that allow one to be invited into the culture, the sharing of spaces and stories, the entire concept of "convivir" (living together- more accurately translated as sharing lives.) Mexicans value a "fiesta" culture; life can get so hard so fast, they take almost any opportunity to celebrate, be it a birthday, a baptism, or a Thursday.
- Hand-made ("hecho a mano") tortillas. Not only are they delicious, but they are the stereotypical Mexican food for a reason-employing Mexico's staple crop of corn, they are the literal base for most Mexican food, even doubling as utensils. (Mexicans often break tortillas into small pieces and sort of scoop up the accompanying meat, beans, etc. like a spoon. As a bonus, it makes washing the dishes that much easier.)
- Pride. Mexicans are a proud people, well-versed in their history and traditions. Given that every pueblo has a patron saint, that there are altars dedicated to the Virgin of Guadalupe on every other corner, and that just about everyone has an oversized Mexican flag ready to display for Independence Day, this is no small feat.
- Slang and playfulness in speech, an assumed sense of humor even in the sense of interacting with a gringa such as myself.
- The absence of over-preparedness. Mexicans tend to buy things only when they need them, even to the extent of going to the store to buy 1 diaper. In our world of Costco and stocking up in case of any possible nuclear fallout or mere power outage, this "live as life comes" attitude is something I find refreshing.
- Going hand in hand with the above, I'm happy to say that parts of Cuernavaca still operate in a smaller, local economy. While bigger chain stores are making their ugly way into the market, there are still many "mom and pop" convenience stores and restaurants that line our roads and fill the infamous Mercado, bringing fresher foods to our table and supporting our neighbors' businesses.
- An uncanny ingenuity to reuse or make due given what one's got. Our fridge is filled with rinsed-out sour cream containers instead of Tupperware (which often has the comic effect of having to open 6 to find the salsa you were looking for), and a friend of mine jokes that he can build or fix anything with packing tape. I marvel at how efficient and creative the people here are.
As a result of the above, and so much more, I find myself changed in ways that both surprise and rejuvenate me. I'm more relaxed, I try to keep my priorities a bit more "in check", and my view of the world has gotten just that much bigger. I have learned so much more about the relationship between the U.S. and Mexico, and am deeply interested in the roles that we play in the reality of our neighbors here. This includes…
- Immigration, not only how we interact with immigrants, but also our role in their economic reasons for making the journey.
(http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/02/us/politics/02penn.html?_r=1&ex=1207886400&en=8f2f2406784ef9c0&ei=5070&emc=eta1&oref=slogin,
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/24/us/24immig.html?ex=1212292800&en=be30054cd7b280d5&ei=5070&emc=eta1,
http://www.sojo.net/index.cfm?action=magazine.article&issue=soj0709&article=070910,
http://www.nomoredeaths.org)
- NAFTA and U.S.-Mexican commerce in general: globalization & market
domination, maquilas & work conditions, etc.- yes, our purchase choices do matter! (http://fairlabor.org/, http://nffc.net/,
http://en.maquilasolidarity.org/).
- The U.S.'s role in educating and training Latin American military officials and presidents at the School of the Americas and universities such as Harvard, and the implications when those whom we educated or trained commit human rights violations and other offenses against their people. Also, the continued governmental and military "aid" from the U.S., such as the proposed "Plan Mexico." (http://www.soaw.org/,
All of these issues are complex, and I am still learning about all of the interplay, so please don't just take my word for it. I ask for your help in exploring these issues, and in keeping me accountable as well. Also, while I am ever more conscious of my/our role(s) in all of this, I do recognize the obvious importance of Mexico's own government, military, corporations, and citizens, as well as the roles of corruption and poverty which further aggravate these conditions.
So, my dear ones, in many ways I feel like I have fallen in love with Mexico, even with all of its faults, and my true hope lies in my carrying over this "Mexican" reality back into my old/new/mixed U.S. reality in a few short weeks. I invite you all to continue this journey with me.
With love and immense gratitude,
Jenny
Monday, June 2, 2008
Newsletter! - Sarah in Mexico
Loved not for what I do, but for who I am…
Ubuntu: I am because you are.
“Africans have this thing called Ubuntu. It is about the essence of being human. It embraces hospitality, caring about others, being able to go the extra mile for the sake of others. We believe that a person is a person through another person, that my humanity is caught up, bound up, inextricably, with yours.
When I dehumanize you, I inexorably dehumanize myself. The solitary human being is a contradiction in terms and therefore you seek to work for the common good because your humanity comes into its own in belonging.”
-Archbishop Desmond Tutu
“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.’ So, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.”
2 Corinthians 12:9
I celebrated my 23rd birthday last week, and was humbled and overjoyed by the way my friends and co-workers gave of themselves, their time, their food, and their joy to celebrate with me. The week of constant fiestas made me so keenly aware of the abundant love that surrounds and uplifts me—here in this place and across the world. In the spirit of gratitude for my life and the love that sustains it, I’m choosing to reflect in this month’s newsletter on the way my experience in Mexico has drawn me into authentic relationship, and instilled deeper belief in a God who embraces the world and each one of us with unconditional love.
One of the things that has been very clear to me throughout the year is the way this call has challenged my traditional way of living and being in the world. I come from a culture that keeps me on the go, that encourages me to seek, do, and buy more, that affirms me when I try harder, work longer, get better, and climb higher. It’s more, more, more, and it’s do, do, do. While I recognize the self-centered, exhausting, and unremitting cycle of our culture’s pace and expectations, I also know I find a part of myself there. I am a doer. I love to be active. I make lists and devise plans. I enjoy taking on many projects and doing them well. This is part of who I am and always will be, but it’s a part of me that I see with new eyes after the past ten months. Coming to Mexico as a missionary has turned much of that “Sarah Rohde” on her face, and I’m grateful for the learning that’s spun out of that.
My job description, more than anything, is to accompany my brothers and sisters in Mexico in their journeys, struggles, and joys. In the first several months, this meant quite literally showing up, sitting, observing, smiling, nodding, and asking questions when it felt appropriate. As I’ve become more familiar with the communities I serve and people with whom I work, I’ve found more occasions for participation and more responsibilities to undertake. My work with the organization, CIDHAL, has allowed me to facilitate a discussion group with young women from Mexico, Spain, Canada, and the U.S. on various issues and themes related to justice and feminism. My work in the indigenous communities has given me opportunities to lead cooking classes, assist in workshops with children for the prevention of sexual abuse, help the women with their pottery and sewing projects, and document weekly meetings and decisions. To this day, though, my most important work still consists of being present, of listening to others’ stories and sharing my own, of visiting homes and attending important events, of receiving generosity in whatever form—a conversation; an invitation to a family birthday party; a traditional, all-natural, totally despicable and unsuccessful remedy for diarrhea; a smile; a tortilla doused in pork fat and cheese; a church service; etc.—that my Mexican friends here are so itching to give.
This work has in many ways freed me—and forced me—to step out of a familiar identity and leap into new, unexplored parts of who I am. When I think about my identity in the past, I’m aware of how quickly I jump to the things that I’ve done to describe myself: I’ve been a student, musician, leader, camp counselor, traveler, teacher, accompanist, and writer. I’m also aware of the control I carried over the things I did and the way I did them. My perfectionist self liked to be good at things right off the bat; therefore, I chose to audition for choir and not for basketball; I majored in religion, Spanish and music, not in accounting or chemistry; I preached often in chapel, but didn’t even consider the debate team.
These activities and actions certainly do form a part of me, but I wonder if a focus on these roles has also distracted me from knowing myself at a more raw level, and created a veiled sense of worth or entitlement. Defining too much of myself by the things I do, achieve, and accomplish probably fosters—albeit unknowingly—a belief that I deserve certain attention, affirmation, and love. Because I’ve done all these things, then I should get… This is not to say that we shouldn’t put forth awards and accolades to celebrate each other’s gifts and excellence, but what concerns me is when we find our sense of being and worth more in what we do than in who we are, when we believe love is something we deserve, rather than the greatest gift we’ve been given.
No one in Mexico knows of the Concordia Choir. No one knows I graduated with honors. No one knows of my involvement in Bread for the World. No one has heard me play the piano. While I yearn to recover these parts of myself, to again be known as a leader, a musician, and a go-getter, I also love what I’ve learned by stripping away these titles and identities. It’s made me see, feel, taste, and touch more closely something I’ve always believed to be true: that love is sheer gift. Such an affirmation forms the bedrock of our faith, as nothing we do makes us more worthy of God’s love and grace. It’s who and whose we are that makes us worthy. And such knowledge can’t help but stir in me a spirit of immeasurable gratitude and deep, deep humility.
It hasn’t been the easiest lesson for me to learn or believe. As I struggle to put my thoughts into Spanish, I often think to myself, “Ugh, if they could just hear me speak in English, they’d have so much more respect for me.” When I go get the tape recorder (la grabadora) instead of the stapler (la grapadora), I just want to whip out my diploma from this reputable liberal arts college as proof that I’m smart and capable. When I try to dance salsa and am this crazy, Norwegian blonde that has obviously only danced to 4/4 time, I want to escape back to comfortable ground, where people look like me and get me. But these are exactly the moments that have turned my world upside down, as it’s there that I’ve discovered the most real, authentic love. While I have thoughts of “If I could…,” “If I were…,” If I did…,”—this idea that doing and being more would make others love me more—my siblings in Mexico show me another way.
Before my Mexican friends know what I do, own, or study, they see who I am. Part of that is noting the difference in my skin and eye color, and knowing I’m a U.S. American; the other part is seeing me as just another human being who has stories to tell, laughter to share, tears to shed, mistakes to make, pain to bear, joy to spread. It wouldn’t be fair to the experience to say our differences have been washed away, but I would say that such extended time together has invited us to work through our pronounced differences and realize each other’s authentic personhood. We are all imperfect beings. We all have lessons to learn and knowledge to share. We all need to love and be loved. We are each living out a different story, yet it has become so real to me that our stories are deeply interwoven, interdependent, and inextricably bound to one another. This whole process of seeing humanness more completely, of discovering myself in the face of another, and of knowing love without conditions and expectations has been one of the most powerful experiences of my life.
Friends and family, it is my hope and prayer that you always know you are loved not for what you do, but for who and whose you are.
Peace and love,
Sarah
Ubuntu: I am because you are.
“Africans have this thing called Ubuntu. It is about the essence of being human. It embraces hospitality, caring about others, being able to go the extra mile for the sake of others. We believe that a person is a person through another person, that my humanity is caught up, bound up, inextricably, with yours.
When I dehumanize you, I inexorably dehumanize myself. The solitary human being is a contradiction in terms and therefore you seek to work for the common good because your humanity comes into its own in belonging.”
-Archbishop Desmond Tutu
“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.’ So, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.”
2 Corinthians 12:9
I celebrated my 23rd birthday last week, and was humbled and overjoyed by the way my friends and co-workers gave of themselves, their time, their food, and their joy to celebrate with me. The week of constant fiestas made me so keenly aware of the abundant love that surrounds and uplifts me—here in this place and across the world. In the spirit of gratitude for my life and the love that sustains it, I’m choosing to reflect in this month’s newsletter on the way my experience in Mexico has drawn me into authentic relationship, and instilled deeper belief in a God who embraces the world and each one of us with unconditional love.
One of the things that has been very clear to me throughout the year is the way this call has challenged my traditional way of living and being in the world. I come from a culture that keeps me on the go, that encourages me to seek, do, and buy more, that affirms me when I try harder, work longer, get better, and climb higher. It’s more, more, more, and it’s do, do, do. While I recognize the self-centered, exhausting, and unremitting cycle of our culture’s pace and expectations, I also know I find a part of myself there. I am a doer. I love to be active. I make lists and devise plans. I enjoy taking on many projects and doing them well. This is part of who I am and always will be, but it’s a part of me that I see with new eyes after the past ten months. Coming to Mexico as a missionary has turned much of that “Sarah Rohde” on her face, and I’m grateful for the learning that’s spun out of that.
My job description, more than anything, is to accompany my brothers and sisters in Mexico in their journeys, struggles, and joys. In the first several months, this meant quite literally showing up, sitting, observing, smiling, nodding, and asking questions when it felt appropriate. As I’ve become more familiar with the communities I serve and people with whom I work, I’ve found more occasions for participation and more responsibilities to undertake. My work with the organization, CIDHAL, has allowed me to facilitate a discussion group with young women from Mexico, Spain, Canada, and the U.S. on various issues and themes related to justice and feminism. My work in the indigenous communities has given me opportunities to lead cooking classes, assist in workshops with children for the prevention of sexual abuse, help the women with their pottery and sewing projects, and document weekly meetings and decisions. To this day, though, my most important work still consists of being present, of listening to others’ stories and sharing my own, of visiting homes and attending important events, of receiving generosity in whatever form—a conversation; an invitation to a family birthday party; a traditional, all-natural, totally despicable and unsuccessful remedy for diarrhea; a smile; a tortilla doused in pork fat and cheese; a church service; etc.—that my Mexican friends here are so itching to give.
This work has in many ways freed me—and forced me—to step out of a familiar identity and leap into new, unexplored parts of who I am. When I think about my identity in the past, I’m aware of how quickly I jump to the things that I’ve done to describe myself: I’ve been a student, musician, leader, camp counselor, traveler, teacher, accompanist, and writer. I’m also aware of the control I carried over the things I did and the way I did them. My perfectionist self liked to be good at things right off the bat; therefore, I chose to audition for choir and not for basketball; I majored in religion, Spanish and music, not in accounting or chemistry; I preached often in chapel, but didn’t even consider the debate team.
These activities and actions certainly do form a part of me, but I wonder if a focus on these roles has also distracted me from knowing myself at a more raw level, and created a veiled sense of worth or entitlement. Defining too much of myself by the things I do, achieve, and accomplish probably fosters—albeit unknowingly—a belief that I deserve certain attention, affirmation, and love. Because I’ve done all these things, then I should get… This is not to say that we shouldn’t put forth awards and accolades to celebrate each other’s gifts and excellence, but what concerns me is when we find our sense of being and worth more in what we do than in who we are, when we believe love is something we deserve, rather than the greatest gift we’ve been given.
No one in Mexico knows of the Concordia Choir. No one knows I graduated with honors. No one knows of my involvement in Bread for the World. No one has heard me play the piano. While I yearn to recover these parts of myself, to again be known as a leader, a musician, and a go-getter, I also love what I’ve learned by stripping away these titles and identities. It’s made me see, feel, taste, and touch more closely something I’ve always believed to be true: that love is sheer gift. Such an affirmation forms the bedrock of our faith, as nothing we do makes us more worthy of God’s love and grace. It’s who and whose we are that makes us worthy. And such knowledge can’t help but stir in me a spirit of immeasurable gratitude and deep, deep humility.
It hasn’t been the easiest lesson for me to learn or believe. As I struggle to put my thoughts into Spanish, I often think to myself, “Ugh, if they could just hear me speak in English, they’d have so much more respect for me.” When I go get the tape recorder (la grabadora) instead of the stapler (la grapadora), I just want to whip out my diploma from this reputable liberal arts college as proof that I’m smart and capable. When I try to dance salsa and am this crazy, Norwegian blonde that has obviously only danced to 4/4 time, I want to escape back to comfortable ground, where people look like me and get me. But these are exactly the moments that have turned my world upside down, as it’s there that I’ve discovered the most real, authentic love. While I have thoughts of “If I could…,” “If I were…,” If I did…,”—this idea that doing and being more would make others love me more—my siblings in Mexico show me another way.
Before my Mexican friends know what I do, own, or study, they see who I am. Part of that is noting the difference in my skin and eye color, and knowing I’m a U.S. American; the other part is seeing me as just another human being who has stories to tell, laughter to share, tears to shed, mistakes to make, pain to bear, joy to spread. It wouldn’t be fair to the experience to say our differences have been washed away, but I would say that such extended time together has invited us to work through our pronounced differences and realize each other’s authentic personhood. We are all imperfect beings. We all have lessons to learn and knowledge to share. We all need to love and be loved. We are each living out a different story, yet it has become so real to me that our stories are deeply interwoven, interdependent, and inextricably bound to one another. This whole process of seeing humanness more completely, of discovering myself in the face of another, and of knowing love without conditions and expectations has been one of the most powerful experiences of my life.
Friends and family, it is my hope and prayer that you always know you are loved not for what you do, but for who and whose you are.
Peace and love,
Sarah
Saturday, May 10, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
March Newsletter - Sarah in Mexico
Sarah's March Newsletter
¡Provecho!
(Spanish equivalent to “Bon Appetit!” “Var så god” or “Forks Up!”)
I’ve heard it said that some people eat to live, while others live to eat. Well don’t waste too much time trying to figure out which category I fit into! Nearly all my favorite things in this world involve food—camping, socializing, traveling, cooking, holidays, etc.—and that remains just as true here in Mexico. So, this month’s newsletter hits on a lighter part of life south of the border, and is dedicated to the culinary beauty of Mexico and some of my most cherished moments in the kitchen.
Simple Ingredients, Countless Entrees, Exquisite Flavor!
Get a bunch of tomatoes, some onion, a couple cloves of garlic, a handful of chile peppers, loads of cheese, a good bit of salt, corn tortillas, rice, and beans and you’ve got yourself the principle ingredients for Mexican cuisine. Despite the fact that the ingredients don’t vary much from meal to meal, I’ve found Mexican food to be surprisingly diverse and wonderfully flavorful. A resourceful and creative people, Mexicans have found myriad ways to embellish their staples and spice up the palate. They make salsas of every color, texture, and spiciness. Sometimes the peppers and tomatoes are boiled and then blended, other times they’re grilled and then mashed by hand in a stone bowl. Rice may be served white, green, or red. Chicken may come to you in many forms—leg, breast, wing, foot, even stomach. Tortillas may be round, oval, oblong, diamond; they can be made of blue, white, yellow, or red corn; sometimes they’re grilled over an open-fire and other times fried in a pan of sizzling oil. Chile peppers appear in every color, shape, and size; some are sold fresh, others have been hung and dried; their spiciness ranges from subtle and mild to off-the-charts hot. Imaginative and delicious, Mexican cooking has yet to bore me! Some of my favorite platters include enchiladas, quesadillas, tinga de pollo (spicy chicken often served in quesadillas), and pozole (a hearty soup of corn and chicken, garnished with lime, chopped onion, dried chile, oregano and avocado).
The blessed tortilla
For Mexicans, no meal is complete without tortillas…I mean several tortillas. In fact, I just read in the newspaper last week that Mexicans devour over 300 million tortillas daily!
One begins to understand how Mexicans consume so many tortillas by simply watching them eat. Instead of using forks and spoons, Mexicans find the tortilla to be equally, if not more, functional. They rip off half of the tortilla and use it as a sort of “mitt” to help them peel off some meat, cut through the beans, or scoop up the broth; then they curl up the edges of the tortilla to keep food from spilling, and quickly lift it directly into their mouths. This may sound like an exaggerated description of the short transport from plate to mouth, but it illuminates the amount of concentration it requires for me to follow suit. It’s an art, I’ve decided, as I rarely get through a meal without refried beans seeping out of my tortilla, or bright, red salsa dripping down my forearm!
My favorite tortillas are those that come straight from the cornfield near Cuentepec, as I’m able to witness the entire process—from plant to plate—every week. During the harvest season, the women and their husbands spend days and weeks in the unyielding heat, hauling bushels of corn from the country to their homes. They scatter the plants out on the roof to dry, and then separate the stalks, kernels, husks, and cobs. Not wanting to waste one part of their produce, they will use the husks to wrap tamales, the cobs and stalks as “kindling” for the fire, and the kernels for tortillas. Soaked overnight in water and a bit of limestone (this limestone powder has, for centuries, been a significant source of vitamins and minerals for the indigenous people), the kernels are then brought to the molino (a machine that crushes the kernels) and ground into masa (dough). It is a lengthy and arduous routine, but the women noticeably take pride in their labor and tradition. I value the opportunity to take part in this custom, as I see in it a great testament to the organic interconnectedness of humanity and earth. I see the fields from which the food comes, I am able to name all of the ingredients, I see the hands that pick and prepare the food, and I know the names of all those who serve and feast with me. It can be tempting to label indigenous lifestyle as behind-the times, inept, and inefficient, but they have something to teach us about love of land, appreciation of and dependence on natural resources, and deliberate, organic living.
Living Local
Though mega-stores and super-Walmarts are starting to spring up all over the city and wipe out local commerce, I’m grateful that many Mexicans are trying to hold on to the way of life they know and love. The idea of going to a giant supermarket to take care of everything on the errand list—fruit, dried goods, shoes, cosmetics, etc.—is so contrary to this culture and these people. Having grown up without refrigeration and pantries, most Mexicans are accustomed to daily (sometimes multi-daily) trips to local markets, little convenience shops, and corner fruit stands. They go to the people’s market to pick out the season’s freshest fruits and vegetables, swing by Maria’s papeleria down the street to find paper or make copies, count on Jorge’s carniceria to provide fresh cuts of beef and poultry, stop by Marce’s next door when they need household cleaning products, and wait for the nearby tortilleria to come out with kilos of steaming, 100% corn tortillas every afternoon at 2. It’s a treat to watch this hustle and bustle come to life—bopping around from shop to shop, or home to home, with carts dragging behind or hefty, canvas bags draped over shoulders, Mexicans stroll from one errand to the next, never passing up an opportunity to greet the neighbors and catch up on the day’s latest news. Though I notice the inefficiency (when the convenience store is out of the one thing I need, when the woman selling bread doesn’t have any change, or when a sign says “Open at 9,” but there’s still no sign of life at 10:15), I also notice freedom, neighborliness, and support of local community. They know each other and each other’s commerce not by sign or advertisement, but through relationship and communal living. Well aware of the influence of international corporations, it’s getting harder and harder for local businesses to make it. It is my hope that Mexicans are able to resist the power of these monopolizing markets and continue to fill their kitchens and homes with the produce and labor of friends and neighbors.
“Ahorita vengo.”
(I’ll be right back…)
It’s just delightful to me how this rhythm of local and communal living does not at all lend itself to planning ahead. Take, for example, a typical Saturday morning brunch at Marce’s. We’ve decided to make scrambled eggs and beans, so Marce will start up the oil in the pan, chop up the tomatoes, onions, and chiles, heat up the tortillas and pour the juice, and then suddenly realize she doesn’t have any eggs—a critical ingredient! “Oh mother of Mary,” she’ll say, “Ahorita vengo,” and off she’ll go with coin purse in armpit to the corner food stand. She’ll hustle back, we’ll finish preparing the meal, we’ll just get seated at her cozy, kitchen table, and up she goes. “We really should have some avocado with this meal, don’t you think?” It’s not really a question, as she’s out the door before we can assure her it’s wonderful as is. This happens at nearly every meal, and though it’s a little strange to rarely begin and finish a meal with everyone seated together at the table, it’s also simply adorable and amusing!
There’s spicy and then there’s spicy
Many of my Mexican hosts were wonderfully gracious in the first months of my being here. They tamed down on the chiles and made it more accommodating to my untrained, Scandinavian tongue. But now that I’m “more Mexican,” as they like to say, and have mastered consumption of spicy food without getting watery eyes and a dripping nose, it’s become kind of a joke to see if they can get me. Mexicans actually use the verb “enchilar,” which I guess I would translate “to be chilied” or “to chilefy.” After a spicy meal, they’ll often ask, “Te enchilaron?” (Did you get chilied or chilefied?) Gives new meaning to the expression, “You are what you eat.”
A sacred place
Aside from these common, often comical snapshots of the Mexican kitchen, I’ve grown to see the kitchen as a profoundly holy place. I’ve always seen mealtime as important and sacred, but while in Mexico, I’ve realized the way in which the kitchen and its simple tasks often generate space for intimate conversation. Let me tell you about my friend Lore…
Lore is a co-worker of mine at CIDHAL. She is in charge of the cleaning and landscape on our campus, and she works harder than anyone else in the office. Over the past months, Lore has shared pieces of her story with me, a story that begins with poverty, abandonment, homelessness, unemployment, and self-negation, and moves toward growth, health, family, pride, and self-respect. Left by her partner with two young daughters, a junior-high education, and no job, Lore began with a house made of cardboard, beds made of newspaper, and meals of rice and corn. Now, after twenty-five years of tireless work as mother and domestic worker, Lore and her two daughters live in a very small, 2-room, cement home in Nueva Morelos, a community about 45 minutes from Cuernavaca. She and her daughters share one bedroom, they wash all dishes and clothes by hand with water that comes from an underground cistern, they shower by heating up water on the stove and pouring it over their bodies, the bathroom is nothing more than a toilet seat and hole in the ground, and the kitchen is good-sized and amazingly-furnished with refrigerator, stove, table, and dishes. Life is simple there. Life is also rigorous there.
It was an honor to be invited to Lore’s for dinner a few weeks ago. When I walked into her home, I was immediately struck by both her compassion and anxiety. It was clear I arrived earlier than they were expecting, as Lore was scrambling around the house, washing buckets and rags, rinsing the corn for tortillas, and sweeping more vigorously than the winds of the prairie. No matter how many times and ways I offered to help, she insisted that I sit and relax. She got me a chair, set it right in the middle of the patio, and told me to stay put. Because she and her daughters were scurrying around the yard, in and out of the house, and up and down the street, they were never in one place long enough for us to really have a conversation. So I sat there. I felt very uncomfortable, but wanted to respect their wish to host and serve me as guest. Never before have I been so aware of the ‘elite’ status I carry in some social situations. Lore was clearly excited to have me there, but overly apologetic, expressing her regrets multiple times that the house was so small and dirty, that the meal was not ready, that she doesn’t have a more comfortable chair for me, etc. I was caught off guard by her unnecessary preoccupations, and wasn’t sure how to respond to such veneration. What could I say or do to tell her that none of that mattered to me? How could I show her how blessed I felt to be invited to her home? How could I say with sincerity and admiration how beautiful I think her home is? How could I start to deconstruct the walls and differences our world has placed between us?
After a couple hours of waiting in my chair, Lore was ready to begin the meal. I told her of my fascination with cooking, and she invited me into the kitchen to help. Perfect! We began chopping onions, washing apples, cleaning the various parts of the chicken (my favorite job!) and pressing tortillas. I think there’s something about these mundane tasks for the way they shed barriers, transcend language complications, permit silence, inspire humor, and invite vulnerability. We began to have wonderful conversation about our families, traditions, and stories. Lore opened up more about her past and entrusted to me stories of past relationships, challenges of single parenting, the realities of immigration, (all but one of Lore’s seven siblings are living in the U.S. as undocumented immigrants), and her aspirations for herself and her children. I remember there being a short period of silence—I was chopping carrots and Lore was frying the chicken—and then Lore turned to me and admitted, “Sarita, pensé que nunca ibas a venir a mi casa.” Translated, she said, “Sarita, I thought you were never going to come to my house.” Her doubt and honesty startled me, and I asked her to expound. She explained, “You are from America, the wealthiest country in the world. And even though you’re living in Mexico, you have been to many nice and big homes in Cuernavaca, and I live here in this tiny and ugly home.” I was spellbound, uncomfortable, moved, humbled. It pained me to know that my being American, white, and well educated made such assumptions completely normal and valid. Our differences in upbringing, wealth, education, and skin color do not carry equal respect and power; rather, history has given power and privilege to mine over hers. It was a vulnerable moment for both of us, as we confronted pride and shame in our own roots. But her openness gave me the opportunity to express so clearly my gratitude for her hospitality, my admiration for her altruism and determination, my belief that gifts of love and welcome transcend all monetary worth. Since living in a foreign country and being so aware of my yearning for familial togetherness, I’ve been moved to deeper thankfulness for authentic warmth and welcome. “This feels like family to me, Lore,” I told her, and she responded with my favorite Mexican phrase, “You are in your home, Sarita, and I’d love to call you daughter.” It was a holy moment. My whole being felt like it had been drenched in a shower of grace and love. I was able to tell her that I—this young woman that society places above her—needed her. There was a powerful spirit at work within and around us that afternoon, as we were taken beyond labels and inequalities to a place of fuller understanding and real connection. To think about where we began—with our differences so palpable and divisive—and where we ended—with our differences acknowledged, but our unity as sisters and companions surpassing any division—still moves me to tears. And it all brewed out of that little, “poor” kitchen…
Thanks again for reading this month! Just as I relish in the flavors and feasts of Mexico, so do I also look forward to sharing a meal with each of you when I return.
God’s peace,
Sarah Rohde
If you feel so called to “get chilied” yourself, give this recipe a whirl!!!
Tinga de Pollo-Spicy Chicken Quesadillas
(from the kitchen of Marcelina Fitz)
4 chicken breasts
4 tomatoes, diced
2 onions (1 whole, 1 sliced)
2 cloves of garlic
2 chipotle peppers (in can)
(*chipotle peppers are very spicy, so add according to personal preference/stamina*)
1 Tbs. oil
Chicken bullion cube
Cook the chicken breasts in boiling water with onion and a couple cloves of garlic. Let the chicken cool and then shred it. Save the broth.
In a frying pan with oil, cook the slices of onion until transparent, then add tomatoes and 2 chipotle peppers (also diced). Sautee until soft. Add a small cube of chicken bullion and a little of the leftover chicken broth. Lastly, add the shredded chicken and bring to a boil.
Fill tortillas with chicken mixture and lots of shredded cheese. Grill sides until chicken and cheese melt together.
¡Buen Provecho!
¡Provecho!
(Spanish equivalent to “Bon Appetit!” “Var så god” or “Forks Up!”)
I’ve heard it said that some people eat to live, while others live to eat. Well don’t waste too much time trying to figure out which category I fit into! Nearly all my favorite things in this world involve food—camping, socializing, traveling, cooking, holidays, etc.—and that remains just as true here in Mexico. So, this month’s newsletter hits on a lighter part of life south of the border, and is dedicated to the culinary beauty of Mexico and some of my most cherished moments in the kitchen.
Simple Ingredients, Countless Entrees, Exquisite Flavor!
Get a bunch of tomatoes, some onion, a couple cloves of garlic, a handful of chile peppers, loads of cheese, a good bit of salt, corn tortillas, rice, and beans and you’ve got yourself the principle ingredients for Mexican cuisine. Despite the fact that the ingredients don’t vary much from meal to meal, I’ve found Mexican food to be surprisingly diverse and wonderfully flavorful. A resourceful and creative people, Mexicans have found myriad ways to embellish their staples and spice up the palate. They make salsas of every color, texture, and spiciness. Sometimes the peppers and tomatoes are boiled and then blended, other times they’re grilled and then mashed by hand in a stone bowl. Rice may be served white, green, or red. Chicken may come to you in many forms—leg, breast, wing, foot, even stomach. Tortillas may be round, oval, oblong, diamond; they can be made of blue, white, yellow, or red corn; sometimes they’re grilled over an open-fire and other times fried in a pan of sizzling oil. Chile peppers appear in every color, shape, and size; some are sold fresh, others have been hung and dried; their spiciness ranges from subtle and mild to off-the-charts hot. Imaginative and delicious, Mexican cooking has yet to bore me! Some of my favorite platters include enchiladas, quesadillas, tinga de pollo (spicy chicken often served in quesadillas), and pozole (a hearty soup of corn and chicken, garnished with lime, chopped onion, dried chile, oregano and avocado).
The blessed tortilla
For Mexicans, no meal is complete without tortillas…I mean several tortillas. In fact, I just read in the newspaper last week that Mexicans devour over 300 million tortillas daily!
One begins to understand how Mexicans consume so many tortillas by simply watching them eat. Instead of using forks and spoons, Mexicans find the tortilla to be equally, if not more, functional. They rip off half of the tortilla and use it as a sort of “mitt” to help them peel off some meat, cut through the beans, or scoop up the broth; then they curl up the edges of the tortilla to keep food from spilling, and quickly lift it directly into their mouths. This may sound like an exaggerated description of the short transport from plate to mouth, but it illuminates the amount of concentration it requires for me to follow suit. It’s an art, I’ve decided, as I rarely get through a meal without refried beans seeping out of my tortilla, or bright, red salsa dripping down my forearm!
My favorite tortillas are those that come straight from the cornfield near Cuentepec, as I’m able to witness the entire process—from plant to plate—every week. During the harvest season, the women and their husbands spend days and weeks in the unyielding heat, hauling bushels of corn from the country to their homes. They scatter the plants out on the roof to dry, and then separate the stalks, kernels, husks, and cobs. Not wanting to waste one part of their produce, they will use the husks to wrap tamales, the cobs and stalks as “kindling” for the fire, and the kernels for tortillas. Soaked overnight in water and a bit of limestone (this limestone powder has, for centuries, been a significant source of vitamins and minerals for the indigenous people), the kernels are then brought to the molino (a machine that crushes the kernels) and ground into masa (dough). It is a lengthy and arduous routine, but the women noticeably take pride in their labor and tradition. I value the opportunity to take part in this custom, as I see in it a great testament to the organic interconnectedness of humanity and earth. I see the fields from which the food comes, I am able to name all of the ingredients, I see the hands that pick and prepare the food, and I know the names of all those who serve and feast with me. It can be tempting to label indigenous lifestyle as behind-the times, inept, and inefficient, but they have something to teach us about love of land, appreciation of and dependence on natural resources, and deliberate, organic living.
Living Local
Though mega-stores and super-Walmarts are starting to spring up all over the city and wipe out local commerce, I’m grateful that many Mexicans are trying to hold on to the way of life they know and love. The idea of going to a giant supermarket to take care of everything on the errand list—fruit, dried goods, shoes, cosmetics, etc.—is so contrary to this culture and these people. Having grown up without refrigeration and pantries, most Mexicans are accustomed to daily (sometimes multi-daily) trips to local markets, little convenience shops, and corner fruit stands. They go to the people’s market to pick out the season’s freshest fruits and vegetables, swing by Maria’s papeleria down the street to find paper or make copies, count on Jorge’s carniceria to provide fresh cuts of beef and poultry, stop by Marce’s next door when they need household cleaning products, and wait for the nearby tortilleria to come out with kilos of steaming, 100% corn tortillas every afternoon at 2. It’s a treat to watch this hustle and bustle come to life—bopping around from shop to shop, or home to home, with carts dragging behind or hefty, canvas bags draped over shoulders, Mexicans stroll from one errand to the next, never passing up an opportunity to greet the neighbors and catch up on the day’s latest news. Though I notice the inefficiency (when the convenience store is out of the one thing I need, when the woman selling bread doesn’t have any change, or when a sign says “Open at 9,” but there’s still no sign of life at 10:15), I also notice freedom, neighborliness, and support of local community. They know each other and each other’s commerce not by sign or advertisement, but through relationship and communal living. Well aware of the influence of international corporations, it’s getting harder and harder for local businesses to make it. It is my hope that Mexicans are able to resist the power of these monopolizing markets and continue to fill their kitchens and homes with the produce and labor of friends and neighbors.
“Ahorita vengo.”
(I’ll be right back…)
It’s just delightful to me how this rhythm of local and communal living does not at all lend itself to planning ahead. Take, for example, a typical Saturday morning brunch at Marce’s. We’ve decided to make scrambled eggs and beans, so Marce will start up the oil in the pan, chop up the tomatoes, onions, and chiles, heat up the tortillas and pour the juice, and then suddenly realize she doesn’t have any eggs—a critical ingredient! “Oh mother of Mary,” she’ll say, “Ahorita vengo,” and off she’ll go with coin purse in armpit to the corner food stand. She’ll hustle back, we’ll finish preparing the meal, we’ll just get seated at her cozy, kitchen table, and up she goes. “We really should have some avocado with this meal, don’t you think?” It’s not really a question, as she’s out the door before we can assure her it’s wonderful as is. This happens at nearly every meal, and though it’s a little strange to rarely begin and finish a meal with everyone seated together at the table, it’s also simply adorable and amusing!
There’s spicy and then there’s spicy
Many of my Mexican hosts were wonderfully gracious in the first months of my being here. They tamed down on the chiles and made it more accommodating to my untrained, Scandinavian tongue. But now that I’m “more Mexican,” as they like to say, and have mastered consumption of spicy food without getting watery eyes and a dripping nose, it’s become kind of a joke to see if they can get me. Mexicans actually use the verb “enchilar,” which I guess I would translate “to be chilied” or “to chilefy.” After a spicy meal, they’ll often ask, “Te enchilaron?” (Did you get chilied or chilefied?) Gives new meaning to the expression, “You are what you eat.”
A sacred place
Aside from these common, often comical snapshots of the Mexican kitchen, I’ve grown to see the kitchen as a profoundly holy place. I’ve always seen mealtime as important and sacred, but while in Mexico, I’ve realized the way in which the kitchen and its simple tasks often generate space for intimate conversation. Let me tell you about my friend Lore…
Lore is a co-worker of mine at CIDHAL. She is in charge of the cleaning and landscape on our campus, and she works harder than anyone else in the office. Over the past months, Lore has shared pieces of her story with me, a story that begins with poverty, abandonment, homelessness, unemployment, and self-negation, and moves toward growth, health, family, pride, and self-respect. Left by her partner with two young daughters, a junior-high education, and no job, Lore began with a house made of cardboard, beds made of newspaper, and meals of rice and corn. Now, after twenty-five years of tireless work as mother and domestic worker, Lore and her two daughters live in a very small, 2-room, cement home in Nueva Morelos, a community about 45 minutes from Cuernavaca. She and her daughters share one bedroom, they wash all dishes and clothes by hand with water that comes from an underground cistern, they shower by heating up water on the stove and pouring it over their bodies, the bathroom is nothing more than a toilet seat and hole in the ground, and the kitchen is good-sized and amazingly-furnished with refrigerator, stove, table, and dishes. Life is simple there. Life is also rigorous there.
It was an honor to be invited to Lore’s for dinner a few weeks ago. When I walked into her home, I was immediately struck by both her compassion and anxiety. It was clear I arrived earlier than they were expecting, as Lore was scrambling around the house, washing buckets and rags, rinsing the corn for tortillas, and sweeping more vigorously than the winds of the prairie. No matter how many times and ways I offered to help, she insisted that I sit and relax. She got me a chair, set it right in the middle of the patio, and told me to stay put. Because she and her daughters were scurrying around the yard, in and out of the house, and up and down the street, they were never in one place long enough for us to really have a conversation. So I sat there. I felt very uncomfortable, but wanted to respect their wish to host and serve me as guest. Never before have I been so aware of the ‘elite’ status I carry in some social situations. Lore was clearly excited to have me there, but overly apologetic, expressing her regrets multiple times that the house was so small and dirty, that the meal was not ready, that she doesn’t have a more comfortable chair for me, etc. I was caught off guard by her unnecessary preoccupations, and wasn’t sure how to respond to such veneration. What could I say or do to tell her that none of that mattered to me? How could I show her how blessed I felt to be invited to her home? How could I say with sincerity and admiration how beautiful I think her home is? How could I start to deconstruct the walls and differences our world has placed between us?
After a couple hours of waiting in my chair, Lore was ready to begin the meal. I told her of my fascination with cooking, and she invited me into the kitchen to help. Perfect! We began chopping onions, washing apples, cleaning the various parts of the chicken (my favorite job!) and pressing tortillas. I think there’s something about these mundane tasks for the way they shed barriers, transcend language complications, permit silence, inspire humor, and invite vulnerability. We began to have wonderful conversation about our families, traditions, and stories. Lore opened up more about her past and entrusted to me stories of past relationships, challenges of single parenting, the realities of immigration, (all but one of Lore’s seven siblings are living in the U.S. as undocumented immigrants), and her aspirations for herself and her children. I remember there being a short period of silence—I was chopping carrots and Lore was frying the chicken—and then Lore turned to me and admitted, “Sarita, pensé que nunca ibas a venir a mi casa.” Translated, she said, “Sarita, I thought you were never going to come to my house.” Her doubt and honesty startled me, and I asked her to expound. She explained, “You are from America, the wealthiest country in the world. And even though you’re living in Mexico, you have been to many nice and big homes in Cuernavaca, and I live here in this tiny and ugly home.” I was spellbound, uncomfortable, moved, humbled. It pained me to know that my being American, white, and well educated made such assumptions completely normal and valid. Our differences in upbringing, wealth, education, and skin color do not carry equal respect and power; rather, history has given power and privilege to mine over hers. It was a vulnerable moment for both of us, as we confronted pride and shame in our own roots. But her openness gave me the opportunity to express so clearly my gratitude for her hospitality, my admiration for her altruism and determination, my belief that gifts of love and welcome transcend all monetary worth. Since living in a foreign country and being so aware of my yearning for familial togetherness, I’ve been moved to deeper thankfulness for authentic warmth and welcome. “This feels like family to me, Lore,” I told her, and she responded with my favorite Mexican phrase, “You are in your home, Sarita, and I’d love to call you daughter.” It was a holy moment. My whole being felt like it had been drenched in a shower of grace and love. I was able to tell her that I—this young woman that society places above her—needed her. There was a powerful spirit at work within and around us that afternoon, as we were taken beyond labels and inequalities to a place of fuller understanding and real connection. To think about where we began—with our differences so palpable and divisive—and where we ended—with our differences acknowledged, but our unity as sisters and companions surpassing any division—still moves me to tears. And it all brewed out of that little, “poor” kitchen…
Thanks again for reading this month! Just as I relish in the flavors and feasts of Mexico, so do I also look forward to sharing a meal with each of you when I return.
God’s peace,
Sarah Rohde
If you feel so called to “get chilied” yourself, give this recipe a whirl!!!
Tinga de Pollo-Spicy Chicken Quesadillas
(from the kitchen of Marcelina Fitz)
4 chicken breasts
4 tomatoes, diced
2 onions (1 whole, 1 sliced)
2 cloves of garlic
2 chipotle peppers (in can)
(*chipotle peppers are very spicy, so add according to personal preference/stamina*)
1 Tbs. oil
Chicken bullion cube
Cook the chicken breasts in boiling water with onion and a couple cloves of garlic. Let the chicken cool and then shred it. Save the broth.
In a frying pan with oil, cook the slices of onion until transparent, then add tomatoes and 2 chipotle peppers (also diced). Sautee until soft. Add a small cube of chicken bullion and a little of the leftover chicken broth. Lastly, add the shredded chicken and bring to a boil.
Fill tortillas with chicken mixture and lots of shredded cheese. Grill sides until chicken and cheese melt together.
¡Buen Provecho!
Friday, April 4, 2008
March Newsletter - Katie in Mexico
Visiting Hours are now over...
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
March 2008
By Katie
Well, here I am. It is the end of March and this month flew by with two different arrivals of visitors and Mexican Holy Week celebrations. In a couple of days it will be April and I am seeing the fast-approaching end of the year. But before I launch into some of my personal reflections and musings... an update.
At the beginning of March three of my best friends from high school (Katie, Jill and Molly) came to visit me in Mexico. It was a long weekend of fun, travel, girl talk, and reminiscing. We did a whirlwind tour of Cuernavaca and Tepoztlan while also enjoying quality time with some quality girlfriends.
At the end of March my parents and best friend from college, Angie, came to visit. In addition to the tour of Cuernavaca and Tepoz, we also went to Mexico City and the archeological site of Teotihuacan. Once again, it was great to have visitors that wanted to catch a glimpse of the Mexico I know. Although, I have to admit that it is a formidable challenge to explain the experience I’ve had over seven the past months to my visitors who can only come for seven days. It feels limiting, but it is undoubtedly better than nothing.
We ate at some great meals and I ate up every moment with them. We saw the sights and I saw our relationships through new eyes. I am blessed to have such incredible friendships in my life in which we love and support each other while giving each other the freedom to grow and change and seek new paths. It is an awe-inspiring and humbling moment when I realize that we celebrate our differences, embrace the ways we challenge each other, and still love each other with such loyalty and strength.
As always, having visitors is such a blessing and reminds me of the people waiting off stage that are supporting me, cheering me on, and looking forward to seeing me again when I return from this great adventure. However, it is also a balance of maintaining and recognizing my identity as a volunteer in Mexico while also eating out, staying in hotels, and visiting museums. Not only does it take me away from my “purpose” here but it also takes me away from the relationships that I have formed here in Mexico. I love visitors and always will, but I also love who I am and what I do here and I have a hard time shelving that for some vacation time.
By the time I read, reread, edit, reread, edit, reread and finally send this short newsletter, it will be April. April! My departure from Mexico is sneaking up on me and I know that it will come sooner than I can imagine. I am feeling the pulls of being ready to return home, but I also feel my time here flying by. Seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, I am reenergized and ready to pour myself into every moment of these last three months. I am ready to recommit to my work and students and coworkers that bring me such fulfillment. I am ready to plunge back into the friendships here that continue to give me so much life, joy and hope every day. As I enter into April, I take a deep breath, sigh and think to myself, “I am ready.”
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
March 2008
By Katie
Well, here I am. It is the end of March and this month flew by with two different arrivals of visitors and Mexican Holy Week celebrations. In a couple of days it will be April and I am seeing the fast-approaching end of the year. But before I launch into some of my personal reflections and musings... an update.
At the beginning of March three of my best friends from high school (Katie, Jill and Molly) came to visit me in Mexico. It was a long weekend of fun, travel, girl talk, and reminiscing. We did a whirlwind tour of Cuernavaca and Tepoztlan while also enjoying quality time with some quality girlfriends.
At the end of March my parents and best friend from college, Angie, came to visit. In addition to the tour of Cuernavaca and Tepoz, we also went to Mexico City and the archeological site of Teotihuacan. Once again, it was great to have visitors that wanted to catch a glimpse of the Mexico I know. Although, I have to admit that it is a formidable challenge to explain the experience I’ve had over seven the past months to my visitors who can only come for seven days. It feels limiting, but it is undoubtedly better than nothing.
We ate at some great meals and I ate up every moment with them. We saw the sights and I saw our relationships through new eyes. I am blessed to have such incredible friendships in my life in which we love and support each other while giving each other the freedom to grow and change and seek new paths. It is an awe-inspiring and humbling moment when I realize that we celebrate our differences, embrace the ways we challenge each other, and still love each other with such loyalty and strength.
As always, having visitors is such a blessing and reminds me of the people waiting off stage that are supporting me, cheering me on, and looking forward to seeing me again when I return from this great adventure. However, it is also a balance of maintaining and recognizing my identity as a volunteer in Mexico while also eating out, staying in hotels, and visiting museums. Not only does it take me away from my “purpose” here but it also takes me away from the relationships that I have formed here in Mexico. I love visitors and always will, but I also love who I am and what I do here and I have a hard time shelving that for some vacation time.
By the time I read, reread, edit, reread, edit, reread and finally send this short newsletter, it will be April. April! My departure from Mexico is sneaking up on me and I know that it will come sooner than I can imagine. I am feeling the pulls of being ready to return home, but I also feel my time here flying by. Seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, I am reenergized and ready to pour myself into every moment of these last three months. I am ready to recommit to my work and students and coworkers that bring me such fulfillment. I am ready to plunge back into the friendships here that continue to give me so much life, joy and hope every day. As I enter into April, I take a deep breath, sigh and think to myself, “I am ready.”
Thursday, March 13, 2008
February newsletter, better late than never - Katie in Mexico
Breaking down the border
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
February 2008
By Katie
My experience in Mexico is constantly challenging me to see the familiar through new eyes. From daily interactions with friends and my host family to discussing major socio-economic-political issues with the volunteer group, I am confronting new ways of thinking about the realities of our world while also confronting my own perspectives that I have grown up hearing and believing. As I reflected in one of my previous newsletters, “I am because you are.” Through a daily existence in a country, culture, and people that are different than me, I am more aware of who I am and what advantages I have from being born a white, middle-class, university-educated female in the United States. I am becoming aware of how my comfortable lifestyle is made possible by the working hands of people from every corner of this earth. I am realizing how my way of looking at something is not the only way, nor is it the best way. I am finding an infinite array of shades of gray in a world that sometimes tries to be black and white.
At the end of February, our volunteer group went to the US-Mexican border to learn about immigration, border policies, and to confront new perspectives on this particularly familiar issue. It is a common topic of debate in the United States, one on which almost everyone has a few opinions. Walking into this year in Mexico, I was confronted with an overwhelming amount of new information, stories, and views on immigration… but this time from the other side of the Wall. The perspective that I brought with me to Mexico was shattered. Now I am picking up those pieces and gluing them together with the pieces of my Mexican mentality to find a truth that resonates on both sides of the border within me.
I find that I am struck with a mix of emotions when reflecting on my constantly evolving understanding of immigration. I am frustrated and hopeless with the governments that fail to protect the needs of the people by creating or allowing dangerous policies to pass or by keeping already flawed policies in place. I am in awe of the resilience of the people who live in a system of injustice but fight a daily struggle of survival in jobs that are more strenuous than I can imagine for wages that I am too spoiled to ever consider. I am empathetic to those who are forced to immigrate, the last option to keep their family alive, and I find myself hoping and praying that they will cross safely and find a job. I am outraged by the ineffective waste of money that the US has thrown at “tightening border security” which has done nothing to curb migration but has forced migrants to risk their lives to cross dangerous desert passes resulting in hundreds of deaths every year. I am heartbroken when hearing about families that have suffered the loss of a father or a son or a brother who tried to cross. I was ashamed of my home when a Mexican asked me, “Why do you hate us?”
The migrants searching for work are hungry and have no hope of finding decent wages at home. After exhausting all other options, they have to leave their family and their home to enter into a country that openly discriminates and rejects them – migration isn’t a desirable choice, it is the last choice. Nonetheless, they are willing to risk their life spending several days crossing dangerous parts of the desert to feed themselves and their families. They aren’t criminals; they are victims of flawed trade agreements and government policies. They are in need.
It makes me wonder what role I will have now that my eyes have been opened to a new view of immigration. How will I live into my new understanding of the reality of immigration and what will I do with it? Doing or saying nothing is not an option for me, the call is just to clear to ignore. The call to serve my brothers and sisters transcends borders, racial lines, and language or cultural barriers. How will I follow my faith and the call to serve the “least of these my brothers?” (Matthew 25:40) How will I serve the stranger in the midst from my home in the Midwest?
The past six months, and especially our border trip, have remolded my understanding and my opinions about immigration. It is a situation that is too multi-faceted for me to sum up in a newsletter. Trust me, I tried - it was 5 pages and I could have written more. I have created a few entries in my blog about various aspects of immigration and I passionately invite you to explore some of the information and my reflections there.
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
February 2008
By Katie
My experience in Mexico is constantly challenging me to see the familiar through new eyes. From daily interactions with friends and my host family to discussing major socio-economic-political issues with the volunteer group, I am confronting new ways of thinking about the realities of our world while also confronting my own perspectives that I have grown up hearing and believing. As I reflected in one of my previous newsletters, “I am because you are.” Through a daily existence in a country, culture, and people that are different than me, I am more aware of who I am and what advantages I have from being born a white, middle-class, university-educated female in the United States. I am becoming aware of how my comfortable lifestyle is made possible by the working hands of people from every corner of this earth. I am realizing how my way of looking at something is not the only way, nor is it the best way. I am finding an infinite array of shades of gray in a world that sometimes tries to be black and white.
At the end of February, our volunteer group went to the US-Mexican border to learn about immigration, border policies, and to confront new perspectives on this particularly familiar issue. It is a common topic of debate in the United States, one on which almost everyone has a few opinions. Walking into this year in Mexico, I was confronted with an overwhelming amount of new information, stories, and views on immigration… but this time from the other side of the Wall. The perspective that I brought with me to Mexico was shattered. Now I am picking up those pieces and gluing them together with the pieces of my Mexican mentality to find a truth that resonates on both sides of the border within me.
I find that I am struck with a mix of emotions when reflecting on my constantly evolving understanding of immigration. I am frustrated and hopeless with the governments that fail to protect the needs of the people by creating or allowing dangerous policies to pass or by keeping already flawed policies in place. I am in awe of the resilience of the people who live in a system of injustice but fight a daily struggle of survival in jobs that are more strenuous than I can imagine for wages that I am too spoiled to ever consider. I am empathetic to those who are forced to immigrate, the last option to keep their family alive, and I find myself hoping and praying that they will cross safely and find a job. I am outraged by the ineffective waste of money that the US has thrown at “tightening border security” which has done nothing to curb migration but has forced migrants to risk their lives to cross dangerous desert passes resulting in hundreds of deaths every year. I am heartbroken when hearing about families that have suffered the loss of a father or a son or a brother who tried to cross. I was ashamed of my home when a Mexican asked me, “Why do you hate us?”
The migrants searching for work are hungry and have no hope of finding decent wages at home. After exhausting all other options, they have to leave their family and their home to enter into a country that openly discriminates and rejects them – migration isn’t a desirable choice, it is the last choice. Nonetheless, they are willing to risk their life spending several days crossing dangerous parts of the desert to feed themselves and their families. They aren’t criminals; they are victims of flawed trade agreements and government policies. They are in need.
It makes me wonder what role I will have now that my eyes have been opened to a new view of immigration. How will I live into my new understanding of the reality of immigration and what will I do with it? Doing or saying nothing is not an option for me, the call is just to clear to ignore. The call to serve my brothers and sisters transcends borders, racial lines, and language or cultural barriers. How will I follow my faith and the call to serve the “least of these my brothers?” (Matthew 25:40) How will I serve the stranger in the midst from my home in the Midwest?
The past six months, and especially our border trip, have remolded my understanding and my opinions about immigration. It is a situation that is too multi-faceted for me to sum up in a newsletter. Trust me, I tried - it was 5 pages and I could have written more. I have created a few entries in my blog about various aspects of immigration and I passionately invite you to explore some of the information and my reflections there.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Sarah's February Newsletter - Mexico
Reflections from the border…
“I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me a drink; I was a stranger and you received me in your homes, naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you took care of me, in prison and you visited me. The righteous will then answer him, ‘When, Lord, did we ever see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? When did we ever see you a stranger and welcome you in our homes, or naked and clothe you? When did we ever see you sick or in prison, and visit you?’ The King will reply, ‘I tell you, whenever you did this for one of the least important of these followers of mine,
you did it for me.” (Matthew 25:35-40)
“Las paredes vueltas a lado son puentes.” (Walls turned on their sides are bridges.)
(A spray-painted message on the wall that’s been built between Nogales, MX and Nogales, AZ)
This month, I had the privilege of joining the other volunteers and our country coordinator on a trip north to the United States/Mexico border. Challenging, distressing, eye-opening, sobering, overwhelming, and moving, this experience expanded my understanding, deepened my empathy and intensified my concern. Perhaps the most poignant of the entire week was the opportunity to visit with Mexicans who were within hours of crossing the Sonora desert into the U.S. We met them in Altar, Mexico, the last community through which many migrants pass and make their final preparations before heading into the looming desert. Seeing about 1200 migrants pass through its streets every day during high season, Altar’s zocalo is filled with migrants and coyotes (guides) waiting to begin the journey, rusty pick-ups and minivans that provide transportation to and from the edge of the desert, bold signs that remind migrants of necessary precautions amidst the desert’s fatal hazards, and shops that sell all the essentials: backpacks, boots, caps, jackets, and water bottles. We were invited to visit with those hanging around this central plaza, and I pass on these conversations and observations to you, hoping that it will shed light on a reality that sinks much deeper than that which we see on the evening news.
I first met three men whose blank faces, crouching postures, and unwillingness to share much information revealed deep apprehension and fear. It was their very first time attempting to cross the border, and they were trying do so without the help of a coyote—nearly impossible. I met two young women, younger than I, who have left husbands and children behind in order to find work in a maquiladora (a U.S.-owned factory in Mexico). And then I met Marguerito, a man who has crossed the border two times in the last ten years in order to keep his family fed and alive. Marguerito’s first stint as a field laborer in North Carolina was cut unexpectedly short when he received word that his mom was very ill and expected to die in the coming months. Marguerito fled back to Mexico and was able to be with his mother for the few weeks that preceded her death. He described his mother’s passing as “losing the rock of the family,” as his father was a severe alcoholic and had long been unable or unwilling to support the family. The responsibility of protecting and feeding seven younger siblings was now left to Marguerito. Though he tried to find work in his own country, none could provide enough money to cover the most basic necessities of food, water, and clothing. With seemingly no other option, Marguerito left his loved ones behind to make the treacherous journey again to the other side, not knowing where he was headed, if he would find work, or how long he would be gone. He spoke for more than an hour about the perils of the desert, the various jobs he’s held in fields and factories, his relationships—some favorable, others appalling—with supervisors and neighbors, the range of living and working conditions, the pride he carries in knowing he’s lifted his family up, the shame he carries in knowing he’s breaking the law. Now for the third time, Marguerito sits in the center plaza of Altar, Mexico, awaiting the arrival of his comrades and coyote. Clothed in thick, dark apparel and hefty boots, Marguerito carries with him one backpack, a jacket, 2 gallons of water, bread, and fruit. Though some would call him an old hat at this, it’s clear that Marguerito still fears the deadly desert and hates the estrangement from his family. “My family needs me to go,” Marguerito explained, “but I sure hope I’m not gone for long.”
Such are the stories of so many of our Mexican brothers and sisters. Forced to leave behind their family and homeland because of an economic and labor system that does not account for their health and survival, Mexicans head north. Their stories evidence a grim determination, a resolve that keeps them battling through every pain, thirst, patrol, law and wall in order to achieve a steady wage and send money home to their families. When asked where he finds the courage to enter the desert and search for work in the U.S., one immigrant told us, “You’ll understand when you have kids.”
Our trip to the U.S./Mexico border opened my eyes to the complex reality of immigration. It’s no longer an issue that just occupies newsletter headlines, but a reality that affects the lives of almost every Mexican I have met this year. Often I find conversation about such complex, global issues to be so dehumanizing and desensitizing, as I forget how these policies and systems devastate the lives of real human beings. And then I step into the community of Altar and see a plaza filled with poor, petrified Mexicans. I listen to Marguerito’s story and witness the distress in his eyes. I visit a hospedaje (hostel) where migrants try to rest before taking off early in the morning. Resembling bunkhouses from concentration camps, these hostels cram 15 or more people onto beds made of nothing more than long planks of wood and a thin slab of carpet. I spend an hour walking in the Sonoran desert, realizing the constant danger of piercing cacti and intense parchedness. Migrating Mexicans cross these lands in the darkest hours of the night, aided only by the whispers of their guide and the light of the moon. I walk along the wall that our government is building, and witness the way it devastates the environment and so starkly demarcates us from them. I observe crosses and memorials covered with names of loved ones who have died during the journey. Many are marked desconocido (unknown), referring to those whose bodies were too disfigured for anyone to recognize. And I talk to my neighbors, friends, and co-workers, having yet to meet a Mexican who doesn’t have a sibling, child, or parent living and working on the other side of the border. No longer can I speak about immigration without calling to mind these impacting faces and places.
Immigration is an issue that requires significant attention—on the part of both Mexico and the United States—and I share these experiences and realizations as a way to challenge our ignorance and mobilize our concern as people of faith. We must ask the questions, “What is causing so many Mexicans to migrate north? Why are they leaving behind families and pushing themselves through life-threatening circumstances to get to our country? Is it really about wanting to go or having to go?”
I was hesitant to dedicate this newsletter to an issue that has our country deeply divided, yet I can’t resist the call to be a voice for the voiceless. These are stories that need to be told and situations that need to be understood. As witnesses to the life and love of Jesus Christ, I believe we must look critically at the systems that perpetuate such injustice, recognize our relationship with and dependence on our Mexican neighbors, and be fervent advocates for welcoming the stranger among us. The Bible is committed to the neighbor, the other, the alien; we profess faith in a God who loves, welcomes, and liberates all people; we aim to follow Jesus, who gave his very life to welcoming the other, helping the poor, dining with the outcast, living in the margins, breaking down barriers. Called to love of neighbor and solidarity with the oppressed, our faith moves us to develop critical voice and vision in relation to these issues and practice a love that is radical and borderless.
After living with and learning from the Mexican people this year, I’m beginning to debunk some of the myths our media and government so carefully construct. We hear too often that Mexicans want to come to our country, that they are stealing our jobs, halting our economy, not paying taxes, taking advantage of our services, hampering public school systems, committing crimes, and, beyond all else, breaking the law. Not any of these statements are completely untrue, but all of them require a deeper look.
We simply don’t see the way in which our very livelihood depends on the presence of migrants in our country. We wouldn’t have lettuce, tomatoes, or oranges on the table, our highways would not be well-maintained, hotel rooms wouldn’t be clean, and prices of food and clothing would skyrocket. One immigrant at the hostel asked us, “Why don’t you want us in your country? Don’t you see that we do the work none of you want to do for way less money?” It’s true.
We also aren’t told the way in which U.S. policies undermine the survival of Mexicans, and therefore encourage migration to our country. Many here point to NAFTA, the agreement signed between Canada, United States, and Mexico in 1994 that has allowed for the removal of most tariffs on labor, services, and products. While Mexico’s wealthy minority has benefited from this system of free trade, it has had devastating effects on the marginalized majority. The most noticeable and horrendous ramification for me is the loss of Mexico’s most central product: corn. Prior to the signing of NAFTA, Mexico was nearly self-sufficient in its production of corn, importing only two percent. Now, about one-fourth of corn consumed in Mexico is imported from the U.S., as our government subsidies allow it to be sold for a cheaper price than Mexico can produce its own corn. Not only does this shake the country economically, but it also rejects the heart of Mexican culture and indigenous spirituality. Corn is at the center of who they are, the work they do, and the beliefs they hold. During our trip we heard one man declare, “When Mexicans can no longer afford tortillas, we know we have a problem.” The broken system is uprooting Mexicans from their traditional, provisional, well-loved mode of living and forcing them to flee from rural pueblos to cities, maquilas, or the United States in search of work.
And, yes, immigration to our country without papers is illegal, but in a democratic country, do we not have power within the law? Do we take responsibility for understanding the human impact of our laws and economy? Do we not need to know these effects in order to guide possible enforcements and amendments? Should we not find a way to document and legalize the migrants on whom our very economy and survival depend? A Sojourners article helped me gain understanding on this argument, as author Alexia Salvatierra recounts the passage in Mark 2, when Jesus and his disciples are called out for breaking the Sabbath—a “grave breach of Jewish law.” Jesus responds, “The Sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the Sabbath.” Salvatierra believes the same is true with the law: “It is made for humankind, not humankind for the law.” Just as Jesus violates a law when he sees it getting in the way of human life and justice, so must we look critically at the laws we’ve created and the systems they serve. “When laws fail to justly serve the most basic human needs (as with eating or healing on the Sabbath), they are flawed and incomplete” (Sojourners Magazine, September/October 2007).
We get the impression that increased border patrol and surveillance is curbing undocumented migration to the U.S., but that’s far from true. Since our government’s addition of more than 11,000 border agents and construction of more than 80 miles of fencing, there has been no drop in the number of Mexicans crossing—only a change in where they are crossing and an increase in deaths. Our militarized border fails to stem the flow of immigrants, while driving them into the most remote and dangerous stretches of desert that have killed more than 3,000 people in the last seven years. I recognize and support our country’s right to control its borders, but not at the cost of human life and dignity.
The issue of immigration brings to light a living story of people, families, relationships, and countries broken by an unjust system. I’ll be the first to acknowledge that it is dense, difficult, and overwhelming. But my hope and prayer is that it is a story that can be framed by the ancient, stirring imperative of Leviticus: “When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were once aliens in the land of Egypt” (Leviticus 19:33-34).
I think that’s enough for this month! If you made it this far, I thank you for your concern and greatly affirm your stamina! I can’t say enough how grateful I am for the support you continue to offer in my learning and growing this year.
With deep love and gratitude,
Sarah
“I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me a drink; I was a stranger and you received me in your homes, naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you took care of me, in prison and you visited me. The righteous will then answer him, ‘When, Lord, did we ever see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? When did we ever see you a stranger and welcome you in our homes, or naked and clothe you? When did we ever see you sick or in prison, and visit you?’ The King will reply, ‘I tell you, whenever you did this for one of the least important of these followers of mine,
you did it for me.” (Matthew 25:35-40)
“Las paredes vueltas a lado son puentes.” (Walls turned on their sides are bridges.)
(A spray-painted message on the wall that’s been built between Nogales, MX and Nogales, AZ)
This month, I had the privilege of joining the other volunteers and our country coordinator on a trip north to the United States/Mexico border. Challenging, distressing, eye-opening, sobering, overwhelming, and moving, this experience expanded my understanding, deepened my empathy and intensified my concern. Perhaps the most poignant of the entire week was the opportunity to visit with Mexicans who were within hours of crossing the Sonora desert into the U.S. We met them in Altar, Mexico, the last community through which many migrants pass and make their final preparations before heading into the looming desert. Seeing about 1200 migrants pass through its streets every day during high season, Altar’s zocalo is filled with migrants and coyotes (guides) waiting to begin the journey, rusty pick-ups and minivans that provide transportation to and from the edge of the desert, bold signs that remind migrants of necessary precautions amidst the desert’s fatal hazards, and shops that sell all the essentials: backpacks, boots, caps, jackets, and water bottles. We were invited to visit with those hanging around this central plaza, and I pass on these conversations and observations to you, hoping that it will shed light on a reality that sinks much deeper than that which we see on the evening news.
I first met three men whose blank faces, crouching postures, and unwillingness to share much information revealed deep apprehension and fear. It was their very first time attempting to cross the border, and they were trying do so without the help of a coyote—nearly impossible. I met two young women, younger than I, who have left husbands and children behind in order to find work in a maquiladora (a U.S.-owned factory in Mexico). And then I met Marguerito, a man who has crossed the border two times in the last ten years in order to keep his family fed and alive. Marguerito’s first stint as a field laborer in North Carolina was cut unexpectedly short when he received word that his mom was very ill and expected to die in the coming months. Marguerito fled back to Mexico and was able to be with his mother for the few weeks that preceded her death. He described his mother’s passing as “losing the rock of the family,” as his father was a severe alcoholic and had long been unable or unwilling to support the family. The responsibility of protecting and feeding seven younger siblings was now left to Marguerito. Though he tried to find work in his own country, none could provide enough money to cover the most basic necessities of food, water, and clothing. With seemingly no other option, Marguerito left his loved ones behind to make the treacherous journey again to the other side, not knowing where he was headed, if he would find work, or how long he would be gone. He spoke for more than an hour about the perils of the desert, the various jobs he’s held in fields and factories, his relationships—some favorable, others appalling—with supervisors and neighbors, the range of living and working conditions, the pride he carries in knowing he’s lifted his family up, the shame he carries in knowing he’s breaking the law. Now for the third time, Marguerito sits in the center plaza of Altar, Mexico, awaiting the arrival of his comrades and coyote. Clothed in thick, dark apparel and hefty boots, Marguerito carries with him one backpack, a jacket, 2 gallons of water, bread, and fruit. Though some would call him an old hat at this, it’s clear that Marguerito still fears the deadly desert and hates the estrangement from his family. “My family needs me to go,” Marguerito explained, “but I sure hope I’m not gone for long.”
Such are the stories of so many of our Mexican brothers and sisters. Forced to leave behind their family and homeland because of an economic and labor system that does not account for their health and survival, Mexicans head north. Their stories evidence a grim determination, a resolve that keeps them battling through every pain, thirst, patrol, law and wall in order to achieve a steady wage and send money home to their families. When asked where he finds the courage to enter the desert and search for work in the U.S., one immigrant told us, “You’ll understand when you have kids.”
Our trip to the U.S./Mexico border opened my eyes to the complex reality of immigration. It’s no longer an issue that just occupies newsletter headlines, but a reality that affects the lives of almost every Mexican I have met this year. Often I find conversation about such complex, global issues to be so dehumanizing and desensitizing, as I forget how these policies and systems devastate the lives of real human beings. And then I step into the community of Altar and see a plaza filled with poor, petrified Mexicans. I listen to Marguerito’s story and witness the distress in his eyes. I visit a hospedaje (hostel) where migrants try to rest before taking off early in the morning. Resembling bunkhouses from concentration camps, these hostels cram 15 or more people onto beds made of nothing more than long planks of wood and a thin slab of carpet. I spend an hour walking in the Sonoran desert, realizing the constant danger of piercing cacti and intense parchedness. Migrating Mexicans cross these lands in the darkest hours of the night, aided only by the whispers of their guide and the light of the moon. I walk along the wall that our government is building, and witness the way it devastates the environment and so starkly demarcates us from them. I observe crosses and memorials covered with names of loved ones who have died during the journey. Many are marked desconocido (unknown), referring to those whose bodies were too disfigured for anyone to recognize. And I talk to my neighbors, friends, and co-workers, having yet to meet a Mexican who doesn’t have a sibling, child, or parent living and working on the other side of the border. No longer can I speak about immigration without calling to mind these impacting faces and places.
Immigration is an issue that requires significant attention—on the part of both Mexico and the United States—and I share these experiences and realizations as a way to challenge our ignorance and mobilize our concern as people of faith. We must ask the questions, “What is causing so many Mexicans to migrate north? Why are they leaving behind families and pushing themselves through life-threatening circumstances to get to our country? Is it really about wanting to go or having to go?”
I was hesitant to dedicate this newsletter to an issue that has our country deeply divided, yet I can’t resist the call to be a voice for the voiceless. These are stories that need to be told and situations that need to be understood. As witnesses to the life and love of Jesus Christ, I believe we must look critically at the systems that perpetuate such injustice, recognize our relationship with and dependence on our Mexican neighbors, and be fervent advocates for welcoming the stranger among us. The Bible is committed to the neighbor, the other, the alien; we profess faith in a God who loves, welcomes, and liberates all people; we aim to follow Jesus, who gave his very life to welcoming the other, helping the poor, dining with the outcast, living in the margins, breaking down barriers. Called to love of neighbor and solidarity with the oppressed, our faith moves us to develop critical voice and vision in relation to these issues and practice a love that is radical and borderless.
After living with and learning from the Mexican people this year, I’m beginning to debunk some of the myths our media and government so carefully construct. We hear too often that Mexicans want to come to our country, that they are stealing our jobs, halting our economy, not paying taxes, taking advantage of our services, hampering public school systems, committing crimes, and, beyond all else, breaking the law. Not any of these statements are completely untrue, but all of them require a deeper look.
We simply don’t see the way in which our very livelihood depends on the presence of migrants in our country. We wouldn’t have lettuce, tomatoes, or oranges on the table, our highways would not be well-maintained, hotel rooms wouldn’t be clean, and prices of food and clothing would skyrocket. One immigrant at the hostel asked us, “Why don’t you want us in your country? Don’t you see that we do the work none of you want to do for way less money?” It’s true.
We also aren’t told the way in which U.S. policies undermine the survival of Mexicans, and therefore encourage migration to our country. Many here point to NAFTA, the agreement signed between Canada, United States, and Mexico in 1994 that has allowed for the removal of most tariffs on labor, services, and products. While Mexico’s wealthy minority has benefited from this system of free trade, it has had devastating effects on the marginalized majority. The most noticeable and horrendous ramification for me is the loss of Mexico’s most central product: corn. Prior to the signing of NAFTA, Mexico was nearly self-sufficient in its production of corn, importing only two percent. Now, about one-fourth of corn consumed in Mexico is imported from the U.S., as our government subsidies allow it to be sold for a cheaper price than Mexico can produce its own corn. Not only does this shake the country economically, but it also rejects the heart of Mexican culture and indigenous spirituality. Corn is at the center of who they are, the work they do, and the beliefs they hold. During our trip we heard one man declare, “When Mexicans can no longer afford tortillas, we know we have a problem.” The broken system is uprooting Mexicans from their traditional, provisional, well-loved mode of living and forcing them to flee from rural pueblos to cities, maquilas, or the United States in search of work.
And, yes, immigration to our country without papers is illegal, but in a democratic country, do we not have power within the law? Do we take responsibility for understanding the human impact of our laws and economy? Do we not need to know these effects in order to guide possible enforcements and amendments? Should we not find a way to document and legalize the migrants on whom our very economy and survival depend? A Sojourners article helped me gain understanding on this argument, as author Alexia Salvatierra recounts the passage in Mark 2, when Jesus and his disciples are called out for breaking the Sabbath—a “grave breach of Jewish law.” Jesus responds, “The Sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the Sabbath.” Salvatierra believes the same is true with the law: “It is made for humankind, not humankind for the law.” Just as Jesus violates a law when he sees it getting in the way of human life and justice, so must we look critically at the laws we’ve created and the systems they serve. “When laws fail to justly serve the most basic human needs (as with eating or healing on the Sabbath), they are flawed and incomplete” (Sojourners Magazine, September/October 2007).
We get the impression that increased border patrol and surveillance is curbing undocumented migration to the U.S., but that’s far from true. Since our government’s addition of more than 11,000 border agents and construction of more than 80 miles of fencing, there has been no drop in the number of Mexicans crossing—only a change in where they are crossing and an increase in deaths. Our militarized border fails to stem the flow of immigrants, while driving them into the most remote and dangerous stretches of desert that have killed more than 3,000 people in the last seven years. I recognize and support our country’s right to control its borders, but not at the cost of human life and dignity.
The issue of immigration brings to light a living story of people, families, relationships, and countries broken by an unjust system. I’ll be the first to acknowledge that it is dense, difficult, and overwhelming. But my hope and prayer is that it is a story that can be framed by the ancient, stirring imperative of Leviticus: “When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were once aliens in the land of Egypt” (Leviticus 19:33-34).
I think that’s enough for this month! If you made it this far, I thank you for your concern and greatly affirm your stamina! I can’t say enough how grateful I am for the support you continue to offer in my learning and growing this year.
With deep love and gratitude,
Sarah
Friday, March 7, 2008
Jennýs Mexican Adventures Vol. IV - Pobres
You cannot love the pooŕ. You can only love people. - Unknown
Hello all,
How are you? I hope you are all very well and enjoying life. My
life here is just as full, beautiful, and challenging as ever. In
this edition, as it were, of my newsletter, I want to talk about our
notions of working with ̈the poor.̈ I think that we have a tendency
to romanticize the poor, and volunteer work in general. I have been
just as guilty of this as anyone, expecting to find here some rosy
sort or world with the simpler joys of simpler living. And yes, I
have been overwhelmingly touched by ̈simpler̈ experiences here, such
as being specially invited to have breakfast in the home of two of our
students, Sonia and Samantha, where we had hot dogs and instant coffee
and spent the afternoon picking wildflowers. I have been equally
blessed by the generosity of time and spirit I have been shown by
those with fewer material means.
The reality of ̈the poor̈, however, at least in my experiences, is
far more complicated, and much less rosy. The environment in which my
students live in is adverse, and often discouraging. The majority of
these kids grow up dealing with some combination of the surrounding
issues of unstable families, unemployment, drug and alcohol addiction,
crime and general violence, insufficient schooling, lack of access to
clean water, depression, and more. Back in December, the 15-year-old
brother of one of our students (himself a former student at our
project) committed suicide after a hard battle with drug addiction.
The term ̈street kids̈ that we use to describe our student population
refers not to them being literally homeless, but the fact that many of
them spend their days idle in the streets, entertaining themselves by
playing soccer or lighting things on fire, if not juggling on street
corners for tips to add to the familýs income, or at least
supervising younger siblings. The houses that most of them live in
allow the elements to come in, so we get about half of the normal
number of students when it rains because they have to help sweep water
away from their furniture, or because it is just too much of a trek
toddling babies through the muddy streets. We have a 3 and 5-year-old
brother and sister who often come in tired, because their single-room
house also doubles as their grandmotheŕs store, which stays open
until about 11 p.m.
Where the irony of the rosy expectations often sets in, for me, is
that these people are not somehow magically, joyfully making the most
out of little. Sure, there are some that thrive, and do well. But
the overwhelming sentiment is that these people are suffering,
frustrated, overlooked, and uncertain of their futures.
Another aspect of the irony of working in this community, where
there is so much need, is that it is in many ways a difficult
community to ̈serve.̈ Many of the kids at Caminando Unidos are rude,
or even violent, and their mothers occasionally seem to take us for
granted. I found myself quite frustrated, for example, when kids
continued to show up dirty to school, even after we had made the
effort to send them home clean, or came to school with the same
ponytails that we had put in their hair the day before. I felt myself
torn between what I thought was laziness or a sort of taking-advantage
of our project on behalf of the families and my commitment to the
genuine wellbeing of my kids. So, I continue to re-do ponytails, and
now I think I understand a bit more of why.
I dońt share these examples of poverty with you all so that you
will feel sorry for the community I am working in, in fact, I am far
past that. Where I am now is frustrated, a bit disheartened, but yet
invigorated- I feel that something can and should be done to change
these conditions. My previous volunteer stints had me looking for
band-aids, like the shampoo we give to the kids with lice, without me
looking at the root problems of why they keep coming back with lice,
like the lack of access to water, animals in the house, etc. My view
of our project , Caminando Unidos, is that it really is a place of
hope for this community, sort of an oasis in the chaos and
desperation. (That said, it is also a place that is kept running not
only by the hearts and hands of everyone there on the ground, but also
by the donations made by friends, visitors, etc.) However, my hope in
the project is tied to my frustration with its very necessity. Why is
the system so flawed that these families cannot make enough money to
feed themselves all the time?
I also wonder what is my role in all of this, as a volunteer, as a
guest in Mexico? What is my role as an American, part of the global
superpower, Mexicós neighbor? What is my role as a Christian, when I
am called to love the stranger in my midst?
These are not easy questions, and certainly not ones that I would
ever attempt to conquer in a mass email. But, it́s a start of a
conversation, a more comprehensive way of looking at the problem, and
one I intend to continue to study and try to do something about.
With that, friends, I think I am finally out of words.
Lots of love and all the best,
Jenny
p.s. I invite you to check out Caminando Unidośs website:
http://www.caminandounidos.org.mx/
Hello all,
How are you? I hope you are all very well and enjoying life. My
life here is just as full, beautiful, and challenging as ever. In
this edition, as it were, of my newsletter, I want to talk about our
notions of working with ̈the poor.̈ I think that we have a tendency
to romanticize the poor, and volunteer work in general. I have been
just as guilty of this as anyone, expecting to find here some rosy
sort or world with the simpler joys of simpler living. And yes, I
have been overwhelmingly touched by ̈simpler̈ experiences here, such
as being specially invited to have breakfast in the home of two of our
students, Sonia and Samantha, where we had hot dogs and instant coffee
and spent the afternoon picking wildflowers. I have been equally
blessed by the generosity of time and spirit I have been shown by
those with fewer material means.
The reality of ̈the poor̈, however, at least in my experiences, is
far more complicated, and much less rosy. The environment in which my
students live in is adverse, and often discouraging. The majority of
these kids grow up dealing with some combination of the surrounding
issues of unstable families, unemployment, drug and alcohol addiction,
crime and general violence, insufficient schooling, lack of access to
clean water, depression, and more. Back in December, the 15-year-old
brother of one of our students (himself a former student at our
project) committed suicide after a hard battle with drug addiction.
The term ̈street kids̈ that we use to describe our student population
refers not to them being literally homeless, but the fact that many of
them spend their days idle in the streets, entertaining themselves by
playing soccer or lighting things on fire, if not juggling on street
corners for tips to add to the familýs income, or at least
supervising younger siblings. The houses that most of them live in
allow the elements to come in, so we get about half of the normal
number of students when it rains because they have to help sweep water
away from their furniture, or because it is just too much of a trek
toddling babies through the muddy streets. We have a 3 and 5-year-old
brother and sister who often come in tired, because their single-room
house also doubles as their grandmotheŕs store, which stays open
until about 11 p.m.
Where the irony of the rosy expectations often sets in, for me, is
that these people are not somehow magically, joyfully making the most
out of little. Sure, there are some that thrive, and do well. But
the overwhelming sentiment is that these people are suffering,
frustrated, overlooked, and uncertain of their futures.
Another aspect of the irony of working in this community, where
there is so much need, is that it is in many ways a difficult
community to ̈serve.̈ Many of the kids at Caminando Unidos are rude,
or even violent, and their mothers occasionally seem to take us for
granted. I found myself quite frustrated, for example, when kids
continued to show up dirty to school, even after we had made the
effort to send them home clean, or came to school with the same
ponytails that we had put in their hair the day before. I felt myself
torn between what I thought was laziness or a sort of taking-advantage
of our project on behalf of the families and my commitment to the
genuine wellbeing of my kids. So, I continue to re-do ponytails, and
now I think I understand a bit more of why.
I dońt share these examples of poverty with you all so that you
will feel sorry for the community I am working in, in fact, I am far
past that. Where I am now is frustrated, a bit disheartened, but yet
invigorated- I feel that something can and should be done to change
these conditions. My previous volunteer stints had me looking for
band-aids, like the shampoo we give to the kids with lice, without me
looking at the root problems of why they keep coming back with lice,
like the lack of access to water, animals in the house, etc. My view
of our project , Caminando Unidos, is that it really is a place of
hope for this community, sort of an oasis in the chaos and
desperation. (That said, it is also a place that is kept running not
only by the hearts and hands of everyone there on the ground, but also
by the donations made by friends, visitors, etc.) However, my hope in
the project is tied to my frustration with its very necessity. Why is
the system so flawed that these families cannot make enough money to
feed themselves all the time?
I also wonder what is my role in all of this, as a volunteer, as a
guest in Mexico? What is my role as an American, part of the global
superpower, Mexicós neighbor? What is my role as a Christian, when I
am called to love the stranger in my midst?
These are not easy questions, and certainly not ones that I would
ever attempt to conquer in a mass email. But, it́s a start of a
conversation, a more comprehensive way of looking at the problem, and
one I intend to continue to study and try to do something about.
With that, friends, I think I am finally out of words.
Lots of love and all the best,
Jenny
p.s. I invite you to check out Caminando Unidośs website:
http://www.caminandounidos.org.mx/
Sunday, January 27, 2008
January Newsletter - Katie in Mexico
“Living simply” or simply living it up?
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
January 2008
By Katie
‘Tis the season of vacations and visitors. With a different trip or excursion on the calendar almost every two weeks over the course of the next two months, the idea of “living simply” is starting to blur.
The majority of my time in Mexico has been, and will be, defined as “living simply” which is our call to live on a meager stipend and try to understand the hardships of our communities struggling to survive on a daily basis. I was already born into a wonderful life by virtue of being a white, American with access to education, health care, equality, freedom, and job opportunities. That is a painful, daily realization when I walk into La Estación and have the ability to walk out of it. I realize it every time I see my students with toothless grins because at the age of five their teeth have rotted and fallen out. I realize it every time my students ask me for more and more and more food when we serve lunch at Casa Tatic and I always wonder if they ever get anything else to eat during the day.
For me, this notion of “living simply” is a call to try to make the most of what I have already. It means wearing the same week’s worth of shirts over and over again, pretending that my one black shirt and the only pair of non-saggy jeans might pass as a “going out” ensemble, or breaking out Marce’s sewing machine to make my own clothes when wardrobe boredom hits. It means buying the cheapest thing on the menu when meeting up with friends downtown (which is already a luxurious opportunity that many of my work communities cannot enjoy). It means walking to and from work as my daily, affordable exercise instead of using the precious $4.50 pesos (about 45 cents) for a bus ride (let’s not even dream of a gym membership). It means coming home and spending most of my free time with Marce instead of going out with friends like I would have done in Madison. It is giving thanks for all the blessings of an education, health, and opportunities that I have had in my life so far and those that I will have when I return.
Then January and the onslaught of vacations and visitors began…
Ryan, my boyfriend from Madison, came to visit for a couple weeks. We went to a beach and then spent time in Mexico City and Cuernavaca. I tried to show him a glimpse of my reality during this year, but it is so difficult to experience daily life in a one-time visit to my work sites. Just as I cannot fully understand life in La Estación because I do not live there, I had a hard time trying to show him the reality of my life because he does not live here nor was he going to stay for very long. It was still an incredible vacation and we had a wonderful time catching up, snorkeling, going on a river-rafting excursion near the beach, surfing, going to see pyramids and ruins near Mexico City, eating out, wandering Cuernavaca and Tepoztlan, and picking up souvenirs along the way. It was not “living simply” by a long shot. It was “living it up” in Mexico for a couple weeks and now we’ll have memories to last a lifetime.
Just recently, I went to Michoacán (another state in Mexico) to see the monarch butterfly sanctuaries. Five generations of monarchs migrate from central Mexico to southern Canada every year and scientists are still somewhat baffled by how they do it, hence why it is one of the “Wonders of the World.” Sarah, Jenn and I took a weekend getaway to get to the little village of Angangeo. It is a sleepy and rustic mountain town and I felt like us three güeras were more of a sight to see for the locals than the butterflies. Apparently, this little town does not see much action besides the coming and going of tourists. We went to two different sanctuaries, both located up higher in the mountains after stretches of long, bumpy dirt roads. The cold, thin air in the pine forests up at 11,000 feet made it seem like we had left Mexico entirely. At first I did not recognize what I was seeing when we arrived at the colonies. The branches of the pine trees sagged down almost to a vertical hang and were covered with dry clumps. I asked the guide if it was the shells of cocoons and he looked me with a confused expression and told me, “son las mariposas” (“they are the butterflies”). Wow – I had no idea the magnitude of the colonies and the millions of delicate monarch butterflies that rest on the pine branches, clustering into heavy groups of thousands. And when the sun started to peek out from the clouds, the monarchs came alive and started flying around us as if we were in a gentle snowstorm of orange and black flakes. It was truly amazing and a moment of wonder of this awe-inspiring earth that we share. Unfortunately, logging in Mexico is threatening these colonies even though the sanctuaries and forests are protected. Similarly, the migrations patterns are in danger because the monarchs feed on the milkweed that we are spraying and killing in our parts of the United States. Without their food, where are they going to go? Without a home, is this marvel going to continue to exist? But this is a tangent for another time.
During the workweek, I am a volunteer. I come home from work sweaty, exhausted, with a raspy throat from “joyful shouting” (as Heidi so aptly described our little-kid singing), and covered in dirt and food stains from the kids’ hands and hugs. I often shelf the tiredness and indulge Marce in a little plática (chatting, one of her favorite pastimes) over a cup of tea and some yogurt and fruit. Often, I try to get some work done too by making materials for my work sites and keeping up with other necessary tasks.
During the weekends, I either pass the time as normal with a Saturday soccer game in Tepoztlan and a lazy Sunday of making bread and going for a long walk OR I am off gallivanting around Mexico with other volunteers, friends, or family. I easily spend my entire stipend in a weekend getaway and realize once again that I am not “living simply” when I have to go to the ATM to restock.
The next months of every-other week excursions are going to fly by and I am sure that I will walk away from them with some of the best memories of this year… but this is not my typical reality and I have a hard time trying to navigate the fine line between “living simply” and “living it up.” I am finding that the two do not combine. I feel guilty, I feel outside of my Mexican self, and I feel wasteful. I will enjoy the excursions greatly while I am here living it up and I have no hesitation in saying that I am going to enjoy every moment, but I will also relish the return to normalcy and “living simply” come the end of March.
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
January 2008
By Katie
‘Tis the season of vacations and visitors. With a different trip or excursion on the calendar almost every two weeks over the course of the next two months, the idea of “living simply” is starting to blur.
The majority of my time in Mexico has been, and will be, defined as “living simply” which is our call to live on a meager stipend and try to understand the hardships of our communities struggling to survive on a daily basis. I was already born into a wonderful life by virtue of being a white, American with access to education, health care, equality, freedom, and job opportunities. That is a painful, daily realization when I walk into La Estación and have the ability to walk out of it. I realize it every time I see my students with toothless grins because at the age of five their teeth have rotted and fallen out. I realize it every time my students ask me for more and more and more food when we serve lunch at Casa Tatic and I always wonder if they ever get anything else to eat during the day.
For me, this notion of “living simply” is a call to try to make the most of what I have already. It means wearing the same week’s worth of shirts over and over again, pretending that my one black shirt and the only pair of non-saggy jeans might pass as a “going out” ensemble, or breaking out Marce’s sewing machine to make my own clothes when wardrobe boredom hits. It means buying the cheapest thing on the menu when meeting up with friends downtown (which is already a luxurious opportunity that many of my work communities cannot enjoy). It means walking to and from work as my daily, affordable exercise instead of using the precious $4.50 pesos (about 45 cents) for a bus ride (let’s not even dream of a gym membership). It means coming home and spending most of my free time with Marce instead of going out with friends like I would have done in Madison. It is giving thanks for all the blessings of an education, health, and opportunities that I have had in my life so far and those that I will have when I return.
Then January and the onslaught of vacations and visitors began…
Ryan, my boyfriend from Madison, came to visit for a couple weeks. We went to a beach and then spent time in Mexico City and Cuernavaca. I tried to show him a glimpse of my reality during this year, but it is so difficult to experience daily life in a one-time visit to my work sites. Just as I cannot fully understand life in La Estación because I do not live there, I had a hard time trying to show him the reality of my life because he does not live here nor was he going to stay for very long. It was still an incredible vacation and we had a wonderful time catching up, snorkeling, going on a river-rafting excursion near the beach, surfing, going to see pyramids and ruins near Mexico City, eating out, wandering Cuernavaca and Tepoztlan, and picking up souvenirs along the way. It was not “living simply” by a long shot. It was “living it up” in Mexico for a couple weeks and now we’ll have memories to last a lifetime.
Just recently, I went to Michoacán (another state in Mexico) to see the monarch butterfly sanctuaries. Five generations of monarchs migrate from central Mexico to southern Canada every year and scientists are still somewhat baffled by how they do it, hence why it is one of the “Wonders of the World.” Sarah, Jenn and I took a weekend getaway to get to the little village of Angangeo. It is a sleepy and rustic mountain town and I felt like us three güeras were more of a sight to see for the locals than the butterflies. Apparently, this little town does not see much action besides the coming and going of tourists. We went to two different sanctuaries, both located up higher in the mountains after stretches of long, bumpy dirt roads. The cold, thin air in the pine forests up at 11,000 feet made it seem like we had left Mexico entirely. At first I did not recognize what I was seeing when we arrived at the colonies. The branches of the pine trees sagged down almost to a vertical hang and were covered with dry clumps. I asked the guide if it was the shells of cocoons and he looked me with a confused expression and told me, “son las mariposas” (“they are the butterflies”). Wow – I had no idea the magnitude of the colonies and the millions of delicate monarch butterflies that rest on the pine branches, clustering into heavy groups of thousands. And when the sun started to peek out from the clouds, the monarchs came alive and started flying around us as if we were in a gentle snowstorm of orange and black flakes. It was truly amazing and a moment of wonder of this awe-inspiring earth that we share. Unfortunately, logging in Mexico is threatening these colonies even though the sanctuaries and forests are protected. Similarly, the migrations patterns are in danger because the monarchs feed on the milkweed that we are spraying and killing in our parts of the United States. Without their food, where are they going to go? Without a home, is this marvel going to continue to exist? But this is a tangent for another time.
During the workweek, I am a volunteer. I come home from work sweaty, exhausted, with a raspy throat from “joyful shouting” (as Heidi so aptly described our little-kid singing), and covered in dirt and food stains from the kids’ hands and hugs. I often shelf the tiredness and indulge Marce in a little plática (chatting, one of her favorite pastimes) over a cup of tea and some yogurt and fruit. Often, I try to get some work done too by making materials for my work sites and keeping up with other necessary tasks.
During the weekends, I either pass the time as normal with a Saturday soccer game in Tepoztlan and a lazy Sunday of making bread and going for a long walk OR I am off gallivanting around Mexico with other volunteers, friends, or family. I easily spend my entire stipend in a weekend getaway and realize once again that I am not “living simply” when I have to go to the ATM to restock.
The next months of every-other week excursions are going to fly by and I am sure that I will walk away from them with some of the best memories of this year… but this is not my typical reality and I have a hard time trying to navigate the fine line between “living simply” and “living it up.” I am finding that the two do not combine. I feel guilty, I feel outside of my Mexican self, and I feel wasteful. I will enjoy the excursions greatly while I am here living it up and I have no hesitation in saying that I am going to enjoy every moment, but I will also relish the return to normalcy and “living simply” come the end of March.
December Newsletter - Katie in Mexico
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
December 2007
By Katie
This is one of my favorite Christmas songs... “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know...” and it really hit me in a soft spot this year. I wonder if Bing Crosby also spent a year volunteering in Mexico... hmm, I’ll have to do some research on that one. :)
This year’s Christmas was a tough one for me; the hardest part being the lack of similarities between a Mexican Christmas and the ones I used to know. It went by in a blur without many connections keeping me grounded to such a treasured holiday that is celebrated by a multitude of heavenly host-families worldwide and in a multitude of different cultural ways.
So, what was Christmas for me in Mexico?
The holiday season started on December 16th with the nightly celebration of posadas. The word posada means “inn” and these parties reenact Mary and Joseph’s search for an inn in Bethlehem as told in the Christmas story. Almost every neighborhood plans to throw a posada, choosing a night between December 16th and December 24th. All of the neighborhood families help organize the big event even though only one home is designated as the inn.
Friends, families and guests start the posada by walking to different homes on the street, each time singing a song asking the family for room at their “inn.” Each family replies in turn denying the crowd a space at their “inn,” and the quest continues on for nine different houses. Eventually, the party arrives (still singing of course) at the designated home. The host family sings back a song of welcome and the party officially starts. Guests are served hot ponche (punch) which tastes a lot like hot apple cider but with many more fruit flavors, in fact, the punch is prepared with several chunks of warm, soft fruits which are served heartily in every mug. Delicious, messy, and ultimately sticky – I never mastered the way to get the chunks of fruit out of my mug without using my fingers or having a piece fall on my face when taking a big gulp.
After a period of mingling and drinking ponche, a truck-load of piñatas are pulled out, each filled with mandarin oranges, jicama (a root vegetable that tastes more like a fruit), fresh peanuts, sugar cane, and candies. For fear of having too few piñatas for the party, families seemed to err on the side of caution and buy more than enough. Kids are lined up, shortest to tallest and in lines of boys and girls. Everyone gets a turn to take a swing at the piñatas, normally with the older kids wearing a blindfold to keep things interesting. I even got a chance at the piñata during the posada hosted on my street (with blindfold, of course). The piñata rope-holders tricked me and let the piñata fall to the far side of one wall and the crowd only yelled at me “¡ABAJO!” (“down”) – so I started crouching and blindly swinging around at about knee level. Well of course, everyone was laughing hysterically at the clueless güera trying unsuccessfully to find this darn piñata. Haha. I swallowed my pride with some ponche that night but the laughs we all shared were well worth the minute or two of blindfolded absurdity.
Posadas were a full week and a half of celebrations; I was invited to a different posada almost every night and sometimes having to choose between several invitations. Still juggling my average work schedule, I actually went to a posada about every other night. I was a bit tired by the end of the whole thing but it was well worth it - it was a fun way to engage in a completely new tradition of this culture.
I woke up on the morning of Christmas Eve and found that all the stores were open and people were going about their daily business as if it was any other day. Silly me, I was expecting that stores would be closed and the only people out would be the ones en route to their family’s home. So I went for a long walk and then came home to spend the rest of the surreal morning and afternoon with Marce and Sarah.
The only celebration for Christmas occurs on Christmas Eve, a late dinner around the tune of ten o’clock at night. I spent that time with Sarah and her host family. I was quite moved that her host family came from different parts of Mexico and even a few European countries to be together and that separated or divorced spouses were even welcomed to share the time with their family. Before the meal, we each went around and gave a toast for our blessings and joys and gratitude for those around us. Well, perhaps it wasn’t that different after all. We had a big meal with traditional dishes, families came from far and wide to celebrate, and we gave thanks for being together.
Yet still, Christmas itself was so unlike my “Christmas” in the United States. My memories of Christmas are of my family cozied up in a warm home with blankets of shimmering snow on the ground outside, crackling fireplaces, the lovingly prepared meal of our own Scandinavian treats (lefse!) and Christmas cookies. I remember coming home from the late, candlelit church service on Christmas Eve and then putting on slippers with my Sunday best dress or skirt (what a classy combo). I remember the lazy ease of Christmas Day and not a care in the world except hoping there were enough leftovers of my favorite dishes for our second feast. Most importantly, Christmas is a time to share our lives with our loved ones for two whole, uninterrupted days. It is the gentle and steady love of a father, the close heart-to-hearts with a mother that is becoming a friend, the patient wisdom of a grandma sharing with her grandkids, the joking banter with an older brother. Although I have a host family here, a Mexican substitute for this time, it is different to spend Christmas away from those who share my blood. Family is family and there is no replacement. That was what was missed the most.
On one hand, the absence of “Christmas” and my family made me long for the comforts of home; and on the other hand, it made me much more open to all the differences of a Mexican Christmas. I attempted to throw myself into the celebration and enjoyed being welcomed into homes and families who are celebrating the same event but with their own unique customs. I have received a lot of love here in Mexico from the other volunteers, from neighbors, the continual flow of incoming cards from the Bethany congregation, and especially from Marce and her family, all of which is so humbling and comforting during such a vulnerable time of year. Without, it would have been much harder to find the beauty in the holiday spirit that I did find in Mexico.
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
December 2007
By Katie
This is one of my favorite Christmas songs... “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know...” and it really hit me in a soft spot this year. I wonder if Bing Crosby also spent a year volunteering in Mexico... hmm, I’ll have to do some research on that one. :)
This year’s Christmas was a tough one for me; the hardest part being the lack of similarities between a Mexican Christmas and the ones I used to know. It went by in a blur without many connections keeping me grounded to such a treasured holiday that is celebrated by a multitude of heavenly host-families worldwide and in a multitude of different cultural ways.
So, what was Christmas for me in Mexico?
The holiday season started on December 16th with the nightly celebration of posadas. The word posada means “inn” and these parties reenact Mary and Joseph’s search for an inn in Bethlehem as told in the Christmas story. Almost every neighborhood plans to throw a posada, choosing a night between December 16th and December 24th. All of the neighborhood families help organize the big event even though only one home is designated as the inn.
Friends, families and guests start the posada by walking to different homes on the street, each time singing a song asking the family for room at their “inn.” Each family replies in turn denying the crowd a space at their “inn,” and the quest continues on for nine different houses. Eventually, the party arrives (still singing of course) at the designated home. The host family sings back a song of welcome and the party officially starts. Guests are served hot ponche (punch) which tastes a lot like hot apple cider but with many more fruit flavors, in fact, the punch is prepared with several chunks of warm, soft fruits which are served heartily in every mug. Delicious, messy, and ultimately sticky – I never mastered the way to get the chunks of fruit out of my mug without using my fingers or having a piece fall on my face when taking a big gulp.
After a period of mingling and drinking ponche, a truck-load of piñatas are pulled out, each filled with mandarin oranges, jicama (a root vegetable that tastes more like a fruit), fresh peanuts, sugar cane, and candies. For fear of having too few piñatas for the party, families seemed to err on the side of caution and buy more than enough. Kids are lined up, shortest to tallest and in lines of boys and girls. Everyone gets a turn to take a swing at the piñatas, normally with the older kids wearing a blindfold to keep things interesting. I even got a chance at the piñata during the posada hosted on my street (with blindfold, of course). The piñata rope-holders tricked me and let the piñata fall to the far side of one wall and the crowd only yelled at me “¡ABAJO!” (“down”) – so I started crouching and blindly swinging around at about knee level. Well of course, everyone was laughing hysterically at the clueless güera trying unsuccessfully to find this darn piñata. Haha. I swallowed my pride with some ponche that night but the laughs we all shared were well worth the minute or two of blindfolded absurdity.
Posadas were a full week and a half of celebrations; I was invited to a different posada almost every night and sometimes having to choose between several invitations. Still juggling my average work schedule, I actually went to a posada about every other night. I was a bit tired by the end of the whole thing but it was well worth it - it was a fun way to engage in a completely new tradition of this culture.
I woke up on the morning of Christmas Eve and found that all the stores were open and people were going about their daily business as if it was any other day. Silly me, I was expecting that stores would be closed and the only people out would be the ones en route to their family’s home. So I went for a long walk and then came home to spend the rest of the surreal morning and afternoon with Marce and Sarah.
The only celebration for Christmas occurs on Christmas Eve, a late dinner around the tune of ten o’clock at night. I spent that time with Sarah and her host family. I was quite moved that her host family came from different parts of Mexico and even a few European countries to be together and that separated or divorced spouses were even welcomed to share the time with their family. Before the meal, we each went around and gave a toast for our blessings and joys and gratitude for those around us. Well, perhaps it wasn’t that different after all. We had a big meal with traditional dishes, families came from far and wide to celebrate, and we gave thanks for being together.
Yet still, Christmas itself was so unlike my “Christmas” in the United States. My memories of Christmas are of my family cozied up in a warm home with blankets of shimmering snow on the ground outside, crackling fireplaces, the lovingly prepared meal of our own Scandinavian treats (lefse!) and Christmas cookies. I remember coming home from the late, candlelit church service on Christmas Eve and then putting on slippers with my Sunday best dress or skirt (what a classy combo). I remember the lazy ease of Christmas Day and not a care in the world except hoping there were enough leftovers of my favorite dishes for our second feast. Most importantly, Christmas is a time to share our lives with our loved ones for two whole, uninterrupted days. It is the gentle and steady love of a father, the close heart-to-hearts with a mother that is becoming a friend, the patient wisdom of a grandma sharing with her grandkids, the joking banter with an older brother. Although I have a host family here, a Mexican substitute for this time, it is different to spend Christmas away from those who share my blood. Family is family and there is no replacement. That was what was missed the most.
On one hand, the absence of “Christmas” and my family made me long for the comforts of home; and on the other hand, it made me much more open to all the differences of a Mexican Christmas. I attempted to throw myself into the celebration and enjoyed being welcomed into homes and families who are celebrating the same event but with their own unique customs. I have received a lot of love here in Mexico from the other volunteers, from neighbors, the continual flow of incoming cards from the Bethany congregation, and especially from Marce and her family, all of which is so humbling and comforting during such a vulnerable time of year. Without, it would have been much harder to find the beauty in the holiday spirit that I did find in Mexico.
December/January Newsletter - Sarah in Mexico
Sarah's December/January Newsletter
Advent: A Season of Waiting and Preparing
“What has happened to our ability to dwell in unknowing, to live inside a question and coexist with the tensions of uncertainty? Where is our willingness to incubate pain and let it birth something new? What has happened to patient unfolding, to endurance? These things are what form the ground of waiting. And if you look carefully, you’ll see that they’re also the seedbed of creativity and growth—what allows us to do the daring and to break through to newness…Creativity flourishes not in certainty but in questions. Growth germinates not in tent dwelling but in upheaval. Yet the seduction is always security rather than venturing, instant knowing rather than deliberate waiting.”
-Sue Monk Kidd, When the Heart Waits
Though Advent has passed, I find its themes of waiting, expectation, and preparation to be hugely helpful as I try to articulate much of what I am seeing and learning in Mexico. Language of wandering and becoming not only provides me with a lens for this year of service, but also speaks to the realities of many Mexicans and our collective faith in the coming of hope, love and peace to our broken world.
Perhaps more important to Mexicans than Christmas Eve and Day are the 8 days prior to Christmas, when families and neighbors gather to take part in the tradition of “Las Posadas” (posada means “inn” or “shelter” in Spanish). Celebrated nightly between December 16 and 23, Las Posadas commemorate Mary and Joseph’s long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem. On the night of a posada, neighbors gather in the street and reenact this journey, wandering from home to home in search of a place to stay. At each house, a call-and-response litany is sung between those in the street, who are pleading for a place to rest, and the owners of the house. The group is denied and turned away house after house, as there is “no room for them in the inn.” Finally, the weary travelers arrive at the home that will make room for them. The owners sing, “Yes, yes, come in,” and, at once, the doors open wide, everyone shouts and throws their arms in the air, the piñatas are hung, ponche is served (Mexican version of apple cider), and the music and dancing begin. The Mexican party is on! The kids went nuts over striking and breaking the piñatas, and everyone—from age 3 to probably 75—danced together in the street. Dance is such a fundamental part of this culture, and I love to watch the way Mexicans of all ages and sizes move and twist their bodies without a hint of inhibition. It’s a riot!
There’s a way in which Mary and Joseph’s journey to the stable serves as such a helpful metaphor for naming and describing some of my experiences and learning in Mexico. Walking for miles through rugged, deserted territory, searching for a place to rest their weary bodies, consistently rejected by those who aren’t willing to make room, finally finding a place amongst the cattle and manure, and celebrating there the birth of a savior…What does this story mean for Mexicans who observe it so faithfully? On what road are they wandering? For what or whom do they wait? Where do they get turned away? Why do they get turned away? I have to believe the themes of waiting, of long, rigorous journey, and of homelessness and rejection strike many chords with Mexican people and history. Theirs is a story of struggle and persistence, of protest and progress. I think about this arduous journey on a macro scale, and the ways in which the Spanish Conquest, NAFTA, globalization, political corruption, and immigration reveal deep struggle, consistent rejection, and unyielding perseverance. On a micro scale, it draws my attention to the women of Cuentepec who travel—two or three times a week—down a long, steep, treacherous trail to the river to wash themselves, their clothes, and their dishes. I think about the myriad families who have told me of their husband, uncle or son’s dangerous journey across the border. It is a costly trip in every sense of the word—not only hugely expensive, but also one that requires incredible physical stamina, heart-wrenching separation from loved ones, and sometimes even one’s life. (More Mexicans have died trying to cross the border than the number of people killed as a result of the Berlin Wall.) And what about the children who walk through the city alone at all hours of the day and night, trying to sell a bracelet, a rose, even a stick of gum? All of these realities see Mexicans oppressed and turned away, with no other option than to keep traveling.
What is so beautiful about Mexicans is the way they find joy in the midst of their suffering. While keenly aware of their struggles, they’re also so genuinely aware of the gifts. There is noticeable urgency to keep pressing forward, to speak out against the corruption of the government, to demand equal rights for women, to respect and enhance the traditions of indigenous culture, to find a way for all children to be fed and educated, to eliminate the systems that make immigration to the U.S. necessary, etc. But within this deep longing for a world that is just, there is also deliberate attention to all that is good and worthy of celebration in this world. I think one of the misunderstandings of waiting may be that we project ourselves too far forward, focusing on preparing to live rather than living. My brothers and sisters in Mexico are teaching me how to live in joy and in discontent, how to live both in the present and in the hope for a new, reconciled world.
Emmanuel: God With Us
“First Coming” by Madeleine L’Engle
He did not wait till the world was ready,
till men and nations were at peace.
He came when the Heavens were unsteady,
and prisoners cried out for release.
He did not wait for the perfect time.
He came when the need was deep and great.
He dined with sinners in all their grime,
turned water into wine. He did not wait
till hearts were pure. In joy he came
to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.
To a world like ours, of anguished shame
he came, and his Light would not go out.
He came to a world which did not mesh,
to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
the Maker of the stars was born.
We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share or grief, to touch our pain,
He came with love: Rejoice! Rejoice!
Celebrating the coming of Christ in a new land and culture was both truly wonderful and downright strange. Almost everything that I associate with Christmas was missing: there was no rice pudding or lefse, no worship or Christmas carols, no presents underneath the tree, no Christmas lights sparkling in the streets, no below-zero temperatures, and no Rohde family cacophony. Instead, I woke up on the morning of the 24th to a day that felt like any ordinary day in Mexico. Taxis and rutas were running, all stores were open, it was 75º and the sun was shining, people were out and about running errands, buying groceries, going to work, etc. I asked a few people that morning about their plans for the holiday, and the typical response was, “Well, I’m not quite sure. We’ll probably get together with the rest of the family for a big meal.” In my head, I’m thinking, “What? You still don’t know where you’re going to celebrate Christmas? Don’t you make those plans in October?” But in Mexico, planning is highly overrated, and it is so common for families to live close to or with each other that sharing meals and being together is not such a rare, planned occasion.
Most Mexicans celebrate Christmas Eve by gathering for a big meal around 10:00 pm. I joined my host family for the night, and our evening feast included smoked turkey, dried cod in chili sauce, carrot and raisin salad in cream sauce, garlic bread, and egg and potato casserole. It was fine, though I think everyday Mexican food is much more tasty. Toward the end of the meal, Sol (my host mother) stood up to make a toast, followed by each of her children and in-laws. After about five of them had shared a toast, one of the son-in-laws from Holland, who speaks very minimal Spanish, nudged me and said, “You know we have to do this too, right?” We were going in order of age—thank God!—so I still had adequate time to prepare. I rehearsed my toast a dozen times in my head and think I pulled it off pretty well for my first time. Talk about pressure! Our party ended around midnight, but I tagged along with one of Sol’s daughters to a gathering at the in-laws’. We arrived around 1:00 am and the party was literally just beginning. I was exhausted, but these are the moments I must set aside my preferred sleeping and eating habits, and remind myself of the opportunity that it is to live in a new place and culture!
Mexicans don’t do much on Christmas Day—probably because most wake up when the day is half over! I spent all morning in my pajamas, helped my family clean and water plants, and played a few card games with the kids. I joined one of my co-workers’ families in the evening—we heated up leftovers, sang songs, and did lots of visiting—all things that made it feel a bit more like a holiday to me.
There’s no question about it—I missed home deeply. But at the same time, I didn’t find myself wishing to be anywhere other than exactly where I was. I could get caught up in all that was weird or different, but that seems to deny the beauty and truth of Christmas. If I think God only comes in certain places and traditions, then I fail to recognize the magnitude of God’s love and promise to all humanity. Part of the wonder and challenge of this experience is discovering the divine in places and people unimaginable: in bizarre traditions, in collective laughs, in sharing a meal, in listening to a story, in playing with children, in receiving a gift. This life stirs faith in a God who is so beyond, yet so intimate, a God who spun the universe into existence, yet also comes to us in the form of an infant, a God who dwells in the known and familiar, yet continues to be revealed in new and unforeseen places. Such convictions get me right back to the heart of Christmas, when people and cultures around the world celebrate the coming of Emmanuel, God with us.
One world meets another:
The Rohde’s take on Mexico!!
The themes of waiting and arriving hit almost too close to home this year, as the days prior to my family’s arrival in Mexico seemed to move SO slowly. After a few significant travel complications, Mom, Dad, Anna, and Inga walked through the sliding glass doors of the Mexico City Airport, and we embarked on what would be the most incredible, jam-packed, life-giving, hilarious, surreal, and beautiful week together! Our days were filled with family meeting family, blondes meeting morenos (dark-skinned folk), brothers meeting sisters, home meeting home. To be able to introduce my family to this world and all the people, places, sights, and tastes that surround me was simply wonderful. Here are a few of the highlights:
Our day spent in Cuentepec is one that will not quickly be forgotten! Several weeks prior to my family’s arrival, the women of Cuentepec began their “planning meetings” to discuss who would buy the cheese, shell the peanuts, make the salsas, etc. They were committed to putting on a true Mexican fiesta and that they did! When we walked into Lety’s home, the women were scurrying in and out of the kitchen preparing the feast, and the children just kind of stood and stared. Though they didn’t say a word, their faces screamed, “Oh my gosh, there’s three of them!” Similar to my first few times in the community, the women and children were quite timid and reserved. We spent much of our time talking with Maria Luisa (my supervisor) about her work in the communities and the challenges and rewards of such work. The women graced us with a spread of delicious, authentic Mexican treats and dishes—roasted peanuts, eggs in green and red chili sauces, vegetables, salsas, fresh cheese, beans, and white and blue corn tortillas hot off the grill. It’s really not an exaggeration to say there was enough food to feed the entire pueblo. And since no fiesta is complete without a piñata, they had two “true” piñatas (made of ceramic) stuffed with the traditional goodies of peanuts, mandarins, and sugar cane. We formed a circle around the piñata and everyone sang, cheered, clapped, and laughed. It was too beautiful—there we were, Mexicans and Americans speaking Nahaut’l, Spanish, and English, busting out in hearty laughter as people swung at, missed, and shattered the piñata. For those few minutes, humor and laughter transcended our apparent differences and illuminated our shared humanity. We couldn’t even come close to communicating in the same language, but joy and love really need no words. It moved me to tears to watch one family and culture embrace another. If that’s not the best Christmas gift in the world, I’m not sure what is.
Being in charge was almost too much fun! I loved being the tour guide, and think it spawned a new sense of confidence in and ownership of my life here in Mexico. One of the greatest thrills was taking on the role of translator. We had terrific conversations with my host families and co-workers, and mostly, translation went pretty smoothly. Certain conversations were more difficult than others though! Take, for example, our chat with the architect in Cuentepec, as she described the process of constructing the cisterns and the function of the circular excavation, filters, tubes, and pumps. Or how about the conversation Dad had with my host mother about the history of Protestantism, the difference in the authority of the priesthood between Catholicism and Lutheranism, and the mutual agreement between our churches on justification by grace. Uffda! In our dual-language conversations, we also came across some linguistic expressions that have hilarious translations: When Marce heard about our winter weather, she responded, “Ay, que bárbara.” This means that it’s awful or miserable, but her reaction literally translates, “Oh my, how barbaric.” A little extreme when all we’re talking about is snow! And when Mom asked my co-worker Nuvia how I’ve changed, her first response was, “Es más tostada.” This means that I’m a bit more tan, but the literal translation is, “She’s more toasted.” Ha!
Bringing in the New Year at Pie de la Cuesta was awesome! A rugged beach near Acapulco, Pie de la Cuesta is known for having the most spectacular sunsets on the Pacific! It was a great destination for our family, as it freed us to simply relax, eat, and be together. We laid in the sun, walked barefoot along the beach, enjoyed delicious fresh seafood, took naps in the hammocks, laughed like crazy, spent hours around the table discussing light topics like vocation, theology, politics, and love, spotted whales breeching in the distance, and watched fireworks launched over giant waves. It was heavenly!
So we had a great time! Though the goodbye was difficult, I had an unexpected sense of peace in sending them back to the Midwest and staying behind in Mexico. It was a reminder that this place has become home to me, and I continue to receive deeper clarity that this is where God has called me to live and serve this year. Thanks to all of you who continue to strengthen and support that sense of call within me.
Deep peace and joy to you in this New Year,
Sarah
Advent: A Season of Waiting and Preparing
“What has happened to our ability to dwell in unknowing, to live inside a question and coexist with the tensions of uncertainty? Where is our willingness to incubate pain and let it birth something new? What has happened to patient unfolding, to endurance? These things are what form the ground of waiting. And if you look carefully, you’ll see that they’re also the seedbed of creativity and growth—what allows us to do the daring and to break through to newness…Creativity flourishes not in certainty but in questions. Growth germinates not in tent dwelling but in upheaval. Yet the seduction is always security rather than venturing, instant knowing rather than deliberate waiting.”
-Sue Monk Kidd, When the Heart Waits
Though Advent has passed, I find its themes of waiting, expectation, and preparation to be hugely helpful as I try to articulate much of what I am seeing and learning in Mexico. Language of wandering and becoming not only provides me with a lens for this year of service, but also speaks to the realities of many Mexicans and our collective faith in the coming of hope, love and peace to our broken world.
Perhaps more important to Mexicans than Christmas Eve and Day are the 8 days prior to Christmas, when families and neighbors gather to take part in the tradition of “Las Posadas” (posada means “inn” or “shelter” in Spanish). Celebrated nightly between December 16 and 23, Las Posadas commemorate Mary and Joseph’s long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem. On the night of a posada, neighbors gather in the street and reenact this journey, wandering from home to home in search of a place to stay. At each house, a call-and-response litany is sung between those in the street, who are pleading for a place to rest, and the owners of the house. The group is denied and turned away house after house, as there is “no room for them in the inn.” Finally, the weary travelers arrive at the home that will make room for them. The owners sing, “Yes, yes, come in,” and, at once, the doors open wide, everyone shouts and throws their arms in the air, the piñatas are hung, ponche is served (Mexican version of apple cider), and the music and dancing begin. The Mexican party is on! The kids went nuts over striking and breaking the piñatas, and everyone—from age 3 to probably 75—danced together in the street. Dance is such a fundamental part of this culture, and I love to watch the way Mexicans of all ages and sizes move and twist their bodies without a hint of inhibition. It’s a riot!
There’s a way in which Mary and Joseph’s journey to the stable serves as such a helpful metaphor for naming and describing some of my experiences and learning in Mexico. Walking for miles through rugged, deserted territory, searching for a place to rest their weary bodies, consistently rejected by those who aren’t willing to make room, finally finding a place amongst the cattle and manure, and celebrating there the birth of a savior…What does this story mean for Mexicans who observe it so faithfully? On what road are they wandering? For what or whom do they wait? Where do they get turned away? Why do they get turned away? I have to believe the themes of waiting, of long, rigorous journey, and of homelessness and rejection strike many chords with Mexican people and history. Theirs is a story of struggle and persistence, of protest and progress. I think about this arduous journey on a macro scale, and the ways in which the Spanish Conquest, NAFTA, globalization, political corruption, and immigration reveal deep struggle, consistent rejection, and unyielding perseverance. On a micro scale, it draws my attention to the women of Cuentepec who travel—two or three times a week—down a long, steep, treacherous trail to the river to wash themselves, their clothes, and their dishes. I think about the myriad families who have told me of their husband, uncle or son’s dangerous journey across the border. It is a costly trip in every sense of the word—not only hugely expensive, but also one that requires incredible physical stamina, heart-wrenching separation from loved ones, and sometimes even one’s life. (More Mexicans have died trying to cross the border than the number of people killed as a result of the Berlin Wall.) And what about the children who walk through the city alone at all hours of the day and night, trying to sell a bracelet, a rose, even a stick of gum? All of these realities see Mexicans oppressed and turned away, with no other option than to keep traveling.
What is so beautiful about Mexicans is the way they find joy in the midst of their suffering. While keenly aware of their struggles, they’re also so genuinely aware of the gifts. There is noticeable urgency to keep pressing forward, to speak out against the corruption of the government, to demand equal rights for women, to respect and enhance the traditions of indigenous culture, to find a way for all children to be fed and educated, to eliminate the systems that make immigration to the U.S. necessary, etc. But within this deep longing for a world that is just, there is also deliberate attention to all that is good and worthy of celebration in this world. I think one of the misunderstandings of waiting may be that we project ourselves too far forward, focusing on preparing to live rather than living. My brothers and sisters in Mexico are teaching me how to live in joy and in discontent, how to live both in the present and in the hope for a new, reconciled world.
Emmanuel: God With Us
“First Coming” by Madeleine L’Engle
He did not wait till the world was ready,
till men and nations were at peace.
He came when the Heavens were unsteady,
and prisoners cried out for release.
He did not wait for the perfect time.
He came when the need was deep and great.
He dined with sinners in all their grime,
turned water into wine. He did not wait
till hearts were pure. In joy he came
to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.
To a world like ours, of anguished shame
he came, and his Light would not go out.
He came to a world which did not mesh,
to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
the Maker of the stars was born.
We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share or grief, to touch our pain,
He came with love: Rejoice! Rejoice!
Celebrating the coming of Christ in a new land and culture was both truly wonderful and downright strange. Almost everything that I associate with Christmas was missing: there was no rice pudding or lefse, no worship or Christmas carols, no presents underneath the tree, no Christmas lights sparkling in the streets, no below-zero temperatures, and no Rohde family cacophony. Instead, I woke up on the morning of the 24th to a day that felt like any ordinary day in Mexico. Taxis and rutas were running, all stores were open, it was 75º and the sun was shining, people were out and about running errands, buying groceries, going to work, etc. I asked a few people that morning about their plans for the holiday, and the typical response was, “Well, I’m not quite sure. We’ll probably get together with the rest of the family for a big meal.” In my head, I’m thinking, “What? You still don’t know where you’re going to celebrate Christmas? Don’t you make those plans in October?” But in Mexico, planning is highly overrated, and it is so common for families to live close to or with each other that sharing meals and being together is not such a rare, planned occasion.
Most Mexicans celebrate Christmas Eve by gathering for a big meal around 10:00 pm. I joined my host family for the night, and our evening feast included smoked turkey, dried cod in chili sauce, carrot and raisin salad in cream sauce, garlic bread, and egg and potato casserole. It was fine, though I think everyday Mexican food is much more tasty. Toward the end of the meal, Sol (my host mother) stood up to make a toast, followed by each of her children and in-laws. After about five of them had shared a toast, one of the son-in-laws from Holland, who speaks very minimal Spanish, nudged me and said, “You know we have to do this too, right?” We were going in order of age—thank God!—so I still had adequate time to prepare. I rehearsed my toast a dozen times in my head and think I pulled it off pretty well for my first time. Talk about pressure! Our party ended around midnight, but I tagged along with one of Sol’s daughters to a gathering at the in-laws’. We arrived around 1:00 am and the party was literally just beginning. I was exhausted, but these are the moments I must set aside my preferred sleeping and eating habits, and remind myself of the opportunity that it is to live in a new place and culture!
Mexicans don’t do much on Christmas Day—probably because most wake up when the day is half over! I spent all morning in my pajamas, helped my family clean and water plants, and played a few card games with the kids. I joined one of my co-workers’ families in the evening—we heated up leftovers, sang songs, and did lots of visiting—all things that made it feel a bit more like a holiday to me.
There’s no question about it—I missed home deeply. But at the same time, I didn’t find myself wishing to be anywhere other than exactly where I was. I could get caught up in all that was weird or different, but that seems to deny the beauty and truth of Christmas. If I think God only comes in certain places and traditions, then I fail to recognize the magnitude of God’s love and promise to all humanity. Part of the wonder and challenge of this experience is discovering the divine in places and people unimaginable: in bizarre traditions, in collective laughs, in sharing a meal, in listening to a story, in playing with children, in receiving a gift. This life stirs faith in a God who is so beyond, yet so intimate, a God who spun the universe into existence, yet also comes to us in the form of an infant, a God who dwells in the known and familiar, yet continues to be revealed in new and unforeseen places. Such convictions get me right back to the heart of Christmas, when people and cultures around the world celebrate the coming of Emmanuel, God with us.
One world meets another:
The Rohde’s take on Mexico!!
The themes of waiting and arriving hit almost too close to home this year, as the days prior to my family’s arrival in Mexico seemed to move SO slowly. After a few significant travel complications, Mom, Dad, Anna, and Inga walked through the sliding glass doors of the Mexico City Airport, and we embarked on what would be the most incredible, jam-packed, life-giving, hilarious, surreal, and beautiful week together! Our days were filled with family meeting family, blondes meeting morenos (dark-skinned folk), brothers meeting sisters, home meeting home. To be able to introduce my family to this world and all the people, places, sights, and tastes that surround me was simply wonderful. Here are a few of the highlights:
Our day spent in Cuentepec is one that will not quickly be forgotten! Several weeks prior to my family’s arrival, the women of Cuentepec began their “planning meetings” to discuss who would buy the cheese, shell the peanuts, make the salsas, etc. They were committed to putting on a true Mexican fiesta and that they did! When we walked into Lety’s home, the women were scurrying in and out of the kitchen preparing the feast, and the children just kind of stood and stared. Though they didn’t say a word, their faces screamed, “Oh my gosh, there’s three of them!” Similar to my first few times in the community, the women and children were quite timid and reserved. We spent much of our time talking with Maria Luisa (my supervisor) about her work in the communities and the challenges and rewards of such work. The women graced us with a spread of delicious, authentic Mexican treats and dishes—roasted peanuts, eggs in green and red chili sauces, vegetables, salsas, fresh cheese, beans, and white and blue corn tortillas hot off the grill. It’s really not an exaggeration to say there was enough food to feed the entire pueblo. And since no fiesta is complete without a piñata, they had two “true” piñatas (made of ceramic) stuffed with the traditional goodies of peanuts, mandarins, and sugar cane. We formed a circle around the piñata and everyone sang, cheered, clapped, and laughed. It was too beautiful—there we were, Mexicans and Americans speaking Nahaut’l, Spanish, and English, busting out in hearty laughter as people swung at, missed, and shattered the piñata. For those few minutes, humor and laughter transcended our apparent differences and illuminated our shared humanity. We couldn’t even come close to communicating in the same language, but joy and love really need no words. It moved me to tears to watch one family and culture embrace another. If that’s not the best Christmas gift in the world, I’m not sure what is.
Being in charge was almost too much fun! I loved being the tour guide, and think it spawned a new sense of confidence in and ownership of my life here in Mexico. One of the greatest thrills was taking on the role of translator. We had terrific conversations with my host families and co-workers, and mostly, translation went pretty smoothly. Certain conversations were more difficult than others though! Take, for example, our chat with the architect in Cuentepec, as she described the process of constructing the cisterns and the function of the circular excavation, filters, tubes, and pumps. Or how about the conversation Dad had with my host mother about the history of Protestantism, the difference in the authority of the priesthood between Catholicism and Lutheranism, and the mutual agreement between our churches on justification by grace. Uffda! In our dual-language conversations, we also came across some linguistic expressions that have hilarious translations: When Marce heard about our winter weather, she responded, “Ay, que bárbara.” This means that it’s awful or miserable, but her reaction literally translates, “Oh my, how barbaric.” A little extreme when all we’re talking about is snow! And when Mom asked my co-worker Nuvia how I’ve changed, her first response was, “Es más tostada.” This means that I’m a bit more tan, but the literal translation is, “She’s more toasted.” Ha!
Bringing in the New Year at Pie de la Cuesta was awesome! A rugged beach near Acapulco, Pie de la Cuesta is known for having the most spectacular sunsets on the Pacific! It was a great destination for our family, as it freed us to simply relax, eat, and be together. We laid in the sun, walked barefoot along the beach, enjoyed delicious fresh seafood, took naps in the hammocks, laughed like crazy, spent hours around the table discussing light topics like vocation, theology, politics, and love, spotted whales breeching in the distance, and watched fireworks launched over giant waves. It was heavenly!
So we had a great time! Though the goodbye was difficult, I had an unexpected sense of peace in sending them back to the Midwest and staying behind in Mexico. It was a reminder that this place has become home to me, and I continue to receive deeper clarity that this is where God has called me to live and serve this year. Thanks to all of you who continue to strengthen and support that sense of call within me.
Deep peace and joy to you in this New Year,
Sarah
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