junio: Ms. Potato Head

This may not be true for the whole country, but the Mexico I know is full of natural medicines and remedies for just about any problem one can think of. Some remedies are things of absolute genius and perfection, taking advantage of the resources already available, healing our bodies completely, and make we wonder why we shove so many pills down our throats in the U.S. Then again, other Mexican remedies make me long for the ease of a gel-capped cure. Let me share some favorite natural remedy failures:

Diarrhea: Welcome to Mexico. Any foreigner coming here will undoubtedly have a bout with diarrhea at least once. Their remedy is as commonly known as our chicken soup to cure (or comfort) a cold. To cure diarrhea in Mexico, squeeze 4 limes into a small glass, put in one tablespoon of corn starch (optional when unavailable, but strongly recommended), and top it off with a little bit of Coke. Bottoms up. Fortunately, Marce has never made this remedy for me. *whew* I hear it is as disgusting as it sounds. Give me Pepto, please.
One time I was staying at a hotel and wanted some limes for some beer we snuck inside. Well, that was easy to solve - I just went down to the bartender and quietly and discreetly informed him that one of my travel companions was suffering from the runs. Before I could finish asking if I could have some limes, the bartender was already fetching and cutting at least four or five and asking me if I wanted any more and if I needed some Coke with that. Worked like a charm.

Bad Circulation: Drink muincle, a plant leaf that can be used to make tea. The tea comes out a deep purple and almost opaque. The taste is mild, herby, earthy flavor - what one would expect for freshly-picked leaf tea.
I once told Marce that I have bad circulation, it runs in my family. She immediately prescribed muincle and coincidentally had some on hand. She pulled some leaves out of a bag in the fridge and threw them into some water to boil on the stove. If you've had the lovely chance of meeting Marce, it won't surprise you that she made enough tea to fill the mugs of the whole neighborhood. Marce started telling me about all the wonderful things about muincle - it purifies the blood, increases circulation, and helps with the kidneys. Sounds good and since she made so much, I figured, "Well, I guess I have to drink it almost all day and it might help." So, the next morning I filled my half-Nalgene with muincle and hit the road for work. I drank it all morning and almost finished my Nalgene before lunch. During lunch, I started to feel downright exhausted. Marce looked at my wilting eyes and asked me how much I drank... I showed her my near empty water bottle and she burst out laughing. Turns out she forgot to tell me that muincle has some lovely side effects like causing severe drowsiness. Upon Marce's insistence, I called in sick to work and instead slept for 2 and a half hours that afternoon. I now drink muincle with caution.

Thin Hair: Potatoes, potato water, or rice water (the water used for boiling potatoes or rice, respectively). I have thin hair, incredibly thin hair. In Mexico, no one has thin hair so I just seem like a balding weirdo to most people. I mentioned to Marce one time wanting some remedy for thin hair and having heard something about potato water. Oh no no no. Why waste time with potato water when you can go to the source? She recommended mashing up uncooked potatoes and slathering the goop on my head, leaving it there for at least an hour and then washing it out. To really hook me on the idea, she told me that her mom did this to her when she was a kid and her hair ended up so thick that they couldn't braid it all together, but had to do two gigantic pigtails. Sold. So, I tried it and Sarah took photos. It was disgusting and looked a bit like smearing vomit into my hair, but I kept at it determined to give it a try and not quit halfway to always be left wondering "what if I finished rubbing potato on my head?"
You'd think I would have learned by now. This remedy didn't work either. I just had sticky, smelly, clumps of potato thoroughly worked into my hair. It took a lot of time, water and shampoo to wash out and I lost a good amount of hair in the process being pulled out with the chunks of the potato. My hair smelled like fresh lefse for the next day too. Note to others: not worth trying.





Without wanting to end on such a sour note I do want to say that not all natural remedies are failures. It's just that the failures make for more interesting blog entries.

junio: Rainy season

It is the rainy season in Cuernavaca. Typically the rains start in late May or early June and they bring a relief from the heat of April and May. It is beautiful and I love them. More often than not, the storms roll in at night and I can't help but think that the rain pelting my window and the sound of soft thunder in the hills is Mother Nature's form of a percussive lullaby. It is the perfect weather to sleep in, be lazy, curl up with tea or coffee and a sweater.

I laugh at myself and my silliness - I blame the rain.

I set my alarm for 7:00 and wake up to a cool, damp and cloudy morning. I can't resist the temptation of more slumber and I reset my alarm for 7:20. I wake up again and find that it is still cool, damp and cloudy. Well, ¿por qué no? I can sleep a little longer... how about 7:30... eh, I'll make it 7:35 just to show my gratitude to Mother Nature.

Cuernavaca is a city of hills and ravines and concrete. There is no where for the rain water to go but down the slopes of the sidewalks and streets. There is no grass boulevards or lawns to soak up some of the water. We are left with racing rapids where our roads used to be - ankle deep rivers and lakes take over my walking routes. I get quite wet this way. My shoes often end up soaking wet and I come home with pruney feet. I love the moment when I confront one of these lakes or rivers when there is someone else on the other side - we typically share a glance of "Oh shit. What do I do? Is there a way around this? Not without back-tracking and walking a few extra blocks out of my way... Oh to heck with it. I'm going to get wet. Here it goes..." and I take that big, conscious step into my soaking-wet destiny. Normally the other person laughs, then follows suit.

Recently, I woke up to aguaceros. An "aguacero" is a bout of rain that comes down so heavily it becomes impossible to distinguish the drops, everything blurs into a constant blanket of rain. It was that seriously poring rain that makes me think that God and Mother Nature decided to get together for a prank on humans and dump buckets of water on us to watch us scurry around. Or maybe one of them just won an important, divine sporting-event and the other dumped the Gatorade cooler of water on the other in typical celebratory fashion without thinking that we just happen to be the ones getting soaked.
So anyway, it was raining when I woke up and it was still raining when I had to go to work. I debated calling the school and not going so I could stay home, curl up in bed again and then wake up later to relocate myself to a reclined position on our couch with a steaming mug of tea or coffee. After a mental debate of all the reasons why I want to stay home and all the reasons why I can skip, I finally ended with this internal dialogue: "Ah, yes. Maybe I just won't go. Ah, no. I can't skip. It is my responsibility to be there... arg, darn responsibility. I'm not sick and I don't have anything else that I would do with my morning; I can go to work. I will go to work."
So I went. I fashionably rolled my jeans up in that oh-so attractive way so that about two inches of my ankles above my socks were visible. I put on my rain jacket AND carried an umbrella. I then tied plastic bags onto my feet (yeah, plastic grocery bags). I was a real stunner that morning, probably the most attractive woman in Cuernavaca if not the world. In fact, I think that Gucci wants to use that look in the next season's line.
Anyway, I said a prayer and left the house into the river running down our alleyway and I was so proud of my ingenious plastic-bag trick that was actually working. My tennis shoes were still dry even though the water was at least a few inches deep! I was smiling and proud of myself until I squished onto the bus and the driver took one look at me and then laughed at me and my ridiculous get up. My smile disappeared and I felt even more stupid and self-conscious as I walked down the aisle and every-other person in the bus also took note of my plastic bags. *sigh* I sat down and hid my feet under the seat in front of me.
At one of the subsequent stops, an attractive man boarded the bus sopping wet as if he got confused that morning and got dressed first and then took a shower in his clothes. I mean, he was completely, utterly, and thoroughly SOAKED. But he was also one of those attractive men that knows that he is attractive. I imagined him thinking, "I can't be bothered to wear a rain jacket because, duh, it doesn't look good on me and show off my physique the same way that this sleek, leather jacket does. And I can't hide this face under an umbrella because then how will people know that God, in all his generosity and goodness, gave me this face with impeccable bone structure and dazzling eyes. No. I will just get wet and be uncomfortable all day. But beauty is pain. Additionally, I consider it almost my duty and my own magnanimous gift to others so that they can witness how attractive I am. My attractive self will bring sunlight to their rainy day." I thought, "What an idiot. I may have bags on my feet, but I'm dry and happy." My smile returned and I wore those plastic bags proudly for the rest of the morning. I was especially excited when I crossed another road-river and every other pedestrian wound up with soaking shoes and one man commented on my smart idea saying that he has to do that next time! Ha. Take that, silly attractive guy on the bus.
You want to know the kicker: only two kids showed up at school that morning, so we sent them home and school was cancelled.

mayo: e-proof

It was hot this month... but, really hot. April and May are the hottest months in Cuernavaca and then the hopeful rains come in June and start to cool the place off. The Mexicans were saying that this was the hottest April and May ever (yay for global warming!). I was vain and didn't want to look as US-American as my blonde hair and light eyes immediately suggest, I refused to wear shorts for most of the time. But even still, it got to a point of heat when even capris were uncomfortable. Yeah, I wore shorts - I got more catcalls and I stood out even more, but I just had to. It was the type of heat that suffocates, that makes you sweat just by standing up, that makes your legs stick to chairs and benches and any other surface. Don't even get me started on the Mexican sun - let's just say that it is a bit more powerful down here in the land of Zapata. It was hot. I complained and realized I am a conditional summer girl at heart. I am a summer girl if I can enjoy the gifts of summer heat and sun... next to the water. On a boat, on a beach, at a friend's pool. I am not a summer girl for the concrete shell of Cuernavaca. Where's the water?!

I also realized that despite a small fluctuation of temperatures, Cuernavaca has been more or less "summer-like" all year long. I left the US last August and will return in July - I will have over a full year of summer behind me by the time I greet the changing leaves and cool winds of fall in a few months.

So, for those of you who know me as a summer girl at heart (although a conditional one), a true hater of winter, a wuss and complainer throughout January, February, and March in the Midwest... take this blog entry as e-proof for future reference:

I genuinely missed the cold. I did not the extreme colds of February, but I missed the change of seasons and I missed a more mild cold nonetheless. I missed wearing sweaters, gloves, a scarf. I missed fireplaces and hot cocoa and tea. I missed curling up with extra blankets.

So there it is. E-proof. Use this next winter when I am bitching and moaning about the cold. :)

mayo: Return to Guanajuato

Once upon a time, a girl named Katie studied in a beautiful, Mexican town called Guanajuato (goo-wah-nah-who-ah-toe). Colorful, colonial, and full of charm, Guanajuato seduced me quickly and I willingly gave a piece of my heart to the city (a piece which it has held ever since). It was a lovely summer of spending time with friends in fantastic restaurants and bars, living up the dancing, music, and food, and getting to know an incredible host family. It was a couple months of easy-going days without a care in the world. I met some great locals and was not quite ready to leave Guanajuato when the summer had to end. To make matters of the heart even more severe, she had to live this Mexican Wonderland to return to the US and face one of the toughest years ever (which in turn made Guanajuato's pedestal that much grander).

I always wanted to go back. Guanajuato was perfect and I always thought that I would find peace again in the city where I found shelter before a storm. A couple years went by of plans being made and falling apart. I almost lost hope. Then I moved to Cuernavaca and 8 months into my experience here we had a completely open and plan-free 4-day weekend. Without much hesitation, I grabbed the opportunity and the earliest bus possible back to this place that still holds a piece of my heart.

I went with Sarah and our total lack of plans were completely in sync. I had a short list of things I wanted to do: Enjoy good food and drinks, wander around, try to see the host family, and to go back to my favorite local haunts (hoping it all still existed). Of the local haunts: I wanted to revisit Barfly (a bar), revisit Santo Cafe (a restaurant), revisit Cafe Tal (a coffee shop), and try to see a show of Son del Monton (a band). We wanted little to do with museums or tourist sites, excursions or early mornings. It was a vacation of enjoying life for every beautiful, unplanned and unrushed moment of it.

I arrived at the city knowing I am a different person now than the young woman that studied there years ago, but somehow or another the older and wiser me still fell in love all over again. When our lack of plans took a wrong turn, we found a beautiful scenic route and better luck because of it. When we wanted to stop for a coffee, yummy lunch, or glass of wine, we just said "How about here" and enjoyed peaceful (and delicious) breaks in tranquil cafes and vibrant plazas. When my hope was lost that I wouldn't get in touch with the host fam, things magically worked out and they called to invite us out to eat. When it seemed like everything had changed and Guanajuato wasn't as mystical and charming as it once was, it seduced me again.

I haven't given my heart to Cuernavaca the same way that I gave it to Guanajuato. I recognize that the onda of the place is different, that the experience I am living is different, and that I am a very different person now. But from the moment I stepped foot in Guanajuato for the first time in almost three years, I knew that there was something special about the place and about the person that I am when I am there. The entire trip was flawless and incredibly indulgent. When we had to go back to our lives in Cuernavaca I just knew in my gut that I'd be back to Guanajuato again. I will visit Cuernavaca to visit Marce, but I will visit Guanajuato like a "regular" visits their local coffee shop. I have few doubts that (as long as I am able) I will go back to Guanajuato time and time again, and soak up and savor every moment.

Yes, I will go back.

abril: Newsletter

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 can 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.

abril: my Mexico

This was a letter I wrote on Sunday, April 14th, and sent home. More or less catching-up, but also a story of the Mexico that I have grown to love. Many of my days blend together in the daily routine of my jobs but the weekends bring the unexpected moments and surprises that encapsulate "my Mexico." Now that I know the letter was received, I'm sharing it with you all too:


Hello from Mexico!

Things here in Mexico are going great. I am back into my routine of things and although the weeks are flying by, there is also a return to monotony of my work that I find sluggish after so many whirlwind visits and excursions between January and the end of March. But así es, that’s how it goes. To avoid the boredom of returning to that routine I’m re-energized some of my interest in starting new projects and getting creative in my job sites.

Outside of my jobs, life is anything but monotonous. Today was a chaotic but fun day that made me smile – it was a typically atypical day. It all started this morning when Marce and I were chatting over some coffee and sweet bread. She wanted to go to mass, but looked at the clock as it struck 11 – the beginning of the service. She shrugged and decided not to go. Not a Catholic to ever skip a weekly mass, she then began pondering other possibilities for the two of us… wait, I’m going too? We decided to go to a Mariachi-music mass near the downtown that was a recent recommendation from one of Marce’s friends and longaniza (Mexican sausage) clients. We couldn’t remember what time it started, 12 or 12:30. Always a US-American at heart, I suggested going at 12 just in case. So we showed up at one of the numerous churches downtown at 12:10, not entirely sure we were at the right one. Of course, Marce had no idea exactly which church we were going to – those details are rarely discussed here in the Mexican planning process. Additionally, the church was surprisingly empty. Marce asked a woman who confirmed that yes, mass has mariachi music and it starts at 12. Good good. We sat down and started to wait. People started to shuffle in. The mariachi band started to arrive and tune their instruments. Then some church members started scuttling about and preparing the altar, the pulpit, and the sound system. Marce asked another group of ladies who told us that service actually starts at 12:30 and Marce’s friend hasn’t been there for a few weeks. At 12:40 the mass started. I couldn’t help but think to myself about implanting this situation in the US. It would never happen. There would be phone calls between friends throughout the week to confirm the invitation and arrange a meeting time before or after the service. Times of the mass would be double and triple checked. Mariachi would probably not be headlining a local church service. And I can’t think of many US-Americans that are patient enough with the situation to just wait it out without a murmur of complaint or worry about the other “things that I could be doing.” Huh. But as I’m singing Padre Nuestro (the Lord’s Prayer) I am reminded that I am not in the US; I’m in Mexico. This unpredictability and uncertainty happens and it happens a lot. I’ve learned to live with the spontaneity and sometimes-illogical way of life. It turned out to be a good service and Marce was happy she went and I was happy to accompany her.

This afternoon was another example of the constantly changing “plans” for the day. Phone calls started happening this morning and Marce and I invited everyone to come to the house for the watching of the most important national soccer game of the year, El Clásico, between América from Mexico City and las Chivas from Guadalajara. Later rather than sooner Marce and I started getting the food ready and the family started showing up. About ten minutes before scheduled kick-off the power goes out in our neighborhood. What to do?! Wait it out? Not even mentioned. Try to find a bar? Discussed as a possibility, but eventually passed over and forgotten. Well, what about another house? In the meanwhile Victor pulled up their car, which fortunately has a TV inside that picked up a static-y channel playing the big game. *Whew* we hadn’t missed the start yet – the start actually happened a half an hour or so later… perhaps misunderstanding of start time or perhaps some of Mexican tardiness, I’ll never know. I patiently listened to the short debate - best for me to just tag along in these situations and not ask questions. So I just followed the pack as all ten of us piled into the Nissan Exterra and headed up to Victor and Gini’s house. A liter-sized bottle of beer had been opened at Marce’s house, was taken with us, finished, and replenished on the drive. After the game, all ten of us once again piled into the car to drive us home. The family dropped me and Marce off outside of our alleyway in Chipitlan. We had barely opened the door and put down our things when we realized in the meantime they all decided to stay for a bit at Marce’s and have something to eat. Why not? It was only 11pm on a Sunday night. I was tired and wanted to go to bed but the Mexico that I live in is one of food, spending time together and a hospitality that transcends clocks and exhaustion. Oh well.

Today was an example of the sometimes endearing and sometimes frustrating moments of my life in Mexico. Things here are unpredictable, unplanned and often inefficient. But these experiences are always worth the detours and never worth complaints. I come to find that the unexpected experiences are the often ones that make the best memories. Don’t ask when or where or why… just grab a window seat and enjoy the ride. So is my Mexico, and I don’t think I would have it any other way.

marzo: Newsletter

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.”

marzo: Parents and Angie visit Mexico

We did a long list of things in a short amount of time - I'm a pretty active tour guide with full days of activities. To give a quick list:

CUERNAVACA and surrounding area:
- Met Marce and the host family, ate several meals with Marce
- Tepoztlan: a nearby village where we climbed a mountain to see a pyramid, had lunch, shopped in an artisan market, and ate local ice cream
- Cathedral
- Palacio de Cortes: an old fortress and palace for the Spanish conquistador Hernan Cortes which is now a museum in Cuernavaca
- Jardin Borda: an old garden-oasis in the downtown of Cuernavaca, an escape from the noise and pollution of the city
- My work sites: In "La Estacion" we painted the community-center chairs and bagged groceries for the sponsored families of La Estacion; afterwards we visited one of the local families at their home. We worked in the morning with the CCIDD group which serves as our volunteer-retreat center and connection in Cuernavaca. In the afternoon we did a typical day at Casa Tatic from picking up the kids at their home, through the 2 hours of "school" at Tatic, to taking the kids back home.
- Artisan market
- Food market
- A couple great restaurants
- Salsa dancing (Angie and me only)




MEXICO CITY:
- Walking tour of downtown
- Palacio de Bellas Artes: like an opera house or performing arts center
- Parque Alameda: a small park in the downtown area
- Basilica Metropolitana: the main basilica downtown
- Palacio Nacional: the government building with famous Diego Rivera murals
- Templo Mayor: a glimpse at the ruins of Tenochtitlan, the capital of the Aztecs, that is buried under Mexico City and part is excavated and open to public in the downtown
- Basilica de Guadalupe: the 2nd most-visited church in the world, a church devoted to the Virgen de Guadalupe (Latin America's image/miracle of the Virgin Mary)
- Teotihuacan: archeological ruins outside of Mexico City. Built by an unknown civilization, abandoned, and later inhabited by Aztecs.
- Museo Mural de Diego Rivera: a museum that houses one of Diego's famous murals "A Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park"
- Guadalajara de Noche: a restauarant with a floor show of (not necessarily accurate, but still entertaining) performances by traditional dancers, mariachi bands, a lasso-guy, and a ballet group that performed a version of an Aztec fire dance.
- Anthropological Museum: old and recent artifacts. As old as Mexico's prehispanic civilizations up to clothes/foods/arts/rituals/customs of the recent/current indigenous peoples
- Parque Chapultepec: a huge park in Mexico City (like New York's Central Park)
- the Metro: I made them take a few rides in the subway
- more good restaurants

Whew, it was a whirlwind trip and it seems even more so now that I wrote that list! Photos are posted online for your viewing pleasure of the visit.

marzo: Holy Week in Mexico

Holy Week was an interesting time to be in Mexico. It is a major holiday for Catholics, but like all things, the amount of participation varies from person to person. To give you an idea of what Holy Week was like, here is the day-by-day explanation of events.

Domingo de Ramos (Palm Sunday): One week before Easter, Palm Sunday is celebrated. Markets sell elaborate palm weavings of the crucifix, flowers, and other designs that church-goers can carry come the special day. Many communities re-enact this Biblical event when Jesus entered into Jerusalem to his followers carrying palm branches a week before his death and resurrection. Here in the house of Marce, we woke up before dawn and waited at a nearby park at 6am. Her grandson, Marco, was chosen to portray Jesus riding in on a donkey. Marce, Marco, myself, Sarah, Kyle (Sarah's friend visiting from the US), and one of Marce's friends waited in the park... and waited, and waited... welcome to Mexico. Eventually the man with the burro (donkey) arrived and a nervous Marco climbed up and we started walking. As we walked we sang songs and people came out of their homes, little by little, until we were a massive crowd of palm swaying, singing, celebrating Christians. The priest came from the church and met us in the street and led us back to worship.

Jueves Santo (Holy Thursday): We celebrate the foot washing during this day. According to scriptures, Jesus washed the feet of his followers despite their protests of him being the holy one worthy of having his feet washed. Even if you do not subscribe to Christianity, it is a lesson that I enjoy in which the powerful becomes the servant at the feet of others. We participated in the lavatorio de pies (foot washing) here at our local church. Marce recruited Sarah and I to be one of the few pairs of public feet-washers. She insisted that we prepare a little spiel about a promise, or covenant, that we want to make to each other, to ourselves, and to the community. We both got a bit on our soapbox about what this year is teaching us. Sarah said that she wants to take back what she's learned and share it with others in hopes of creating dialogues and understandings to make a more just world. I talked about how I am a missionary this year, but I am also a missionary for life and that I intend on living in a way that I believe to be just by loving, caring for, and serving all of my brothers and sisters of humankind, regardless of religion, race, language or status. Neither Sarah nor I remember the "promise" as part of the scripture teaching... but we did it to make Marce happy.

Viernes Santo (Holy Friday): On Friday, many communities hold a viacrucis, or Stations of the Cross. This celebration can be low-key without costumes and simply a procession and explanation of the different stations with perhaps different community members carrying a cross. This can also be an extravagant re-enactment including costumes, actors, music, props, etc that create the full effect of Jesus' last day on earth. A few photos on flikr from one of these more elaborate viacrucis in a city called Iztapalapa.

Sabado de Gloria (Saturday of Glory): Late mass, ours started at 10pm and lasted until 1am (gotta love our new, traditional Catholic priest who just wants to hear his own voice *rolling eyes*) Our priest also set off fireworks and shouted loudly at the stroke of midnight.

Domingo de Pascua (Easter Sunday): Early morning mass (yes, just a few hours after leaving the church the night before) and then some traditional Mexican favorite foods like mole, pozole, or romeros (dried shrimp in mole sauce)... depends on the family.

*PHOTOS TO COME WHEN I GET THEM FROM SARAH*

marzo: CL girls visit Mexico

The first weekend in March, some of my best friends came to visit me in Cuernavaca. Katie, Jill and Molly hopped on a plane early on a Friday morning and flew down to Mexico City, then bussed to Cuernavaca. We had a great weekend of catching up, deep discussions, silly discussions, reminiscing, and enjoying some cool things in Mexico in the meantime.

We went to Marce's right away and she had enchiladas made for the hungry, travelled-out girls. Yum. Then we went to a bar called Maga for a quick drink before going back to the hostel and chatting some more.


(At the Maga bar: Jill, Molly, me, Katie)

On Saturday we went to Tepoztlan. We had some amazing croissants (I am an addict and go every time I'm in Tepoz) and some coffee. Then we climbed the mountain to get the great view of Tepoz in the valley from the view of the pyramid called Tepozteco. We fed our hungry bellies at a restaurant called Colorines, which has exaggerated Mexican decoration in the same way that Applebees has exaggerated Americana decorations. After that we walked through the open-air, artisan market and went down to the soccer fields. My team happened to be playing, so we said hello and the girls met my teammates. Then we wandered back up through the market, got some Tepoznieves ice cream, and hopped on a bus back to Cuernavaca. We went out salsa dancing that night at Guantanamera... or well, I went dancing. Even though we practiced the basic salsa steps at the hostel, the girls chose to stay at the table and enjoy the view and the drinks instead.


(on top of Tepozteco pyramid on the mountain in Tepoz)

On Sunday we wandered around a bit. We went to the main cathedral in the center of town, but didn't stay long because mass was in session. Then we went to a beautiful garden right in the middle of town. I love the Jardin Borda because it is just a doorway into a blissful escape from the noise and traffic of Cuernavaca. Then we wandered over to the Palacio de Cortes and walked through the artisan market nearby. We went back to Marce's for dinner - quesadillas de tinga. We stayed and chatted and played UNO with her until about 11pm.


(at Jardin Borda)

On Monday, I took the girls to my work sites. We started the day at La Estacion kindergarten. They got to meet the different classes and teachers, hear our warm-up songs in English, and then help me teach a lesson to one of the groups. We played with the kids during recess and then left to go back to Marce's for lunch. We went to my afternoon site too, Casa Tatic, and the girls got the full-day experience. They helped me set up the room and prepare materials, then they walked with me and the other teachers to pick up kids, then we did the whole routine (wash hands, eat, brush teeth, do the activity, clean up, go home), they walked the kids back to their homes with us too. Whew - it was a full day for them but they were great and the kids adored them. They have been asking me about my friends ever since. We ate dinner that night at Marco Polo Italian restaurant with a sweet view of the cathedral lit up at night. It was sad to be already having our last meal, but the trip was coming to a close. I can't believe it went so fast!


(the girls at La Estacion)

Tuesday morning, I accompanied the girls to the bus station and waited with them until the boarded to head back to the airport. It was a great trip and it reminded me of the beautiful friendship we have. We are all so different, and walking on very different life paths, but we still keep in touch and we still make the time to see each other. Now, we'll split up. Molly will move to Alaska to work with her fiance, Katie will move to California to pursue grad school, Jill will be in central Illinois teaching, and I will move back to Madison, Wisconsin. Nevertheless, I have no fear that our friendship will continue. Who knows where we will meet up next time - the Gavle cabin? Alaska? California? Someplace random? I felt good saying goodbye to them at the bus station. As they walked away I realized that these are three amazing women that I am fortunate to have in my life, and I am incredibly blessed that they will in my life for years to come.

febrero: Links for information on immigration

Border Working Group: This is a great packet of information from the Latin America Working Group's Border Working Group. Includes information on everything from current border policy analysis to issues regarding unaccopanied migrant minors to statemtents on immigration from various religious groups.
No More Deaths: website of the No More Deaths organization in which John Fife works. A powerful site that might not settle well with those who are not in agreement with this mindset of immigration.
Humane Borders: Humanitarian aid organization, similar to No More Deaths but their website is much easier to swallow.
BorderLinks: website for BorderLinks, an organization that receives groups that want to learn more about immigration issues. We stayed at the Arizona site during our YAGM retreat. There is also a Nogales, Mexico site.

Also, please visit my photo site online to see my pictures from the border trip with the volunteer group.

febrero: A night in the desert

Although it is impossible for us to truly wrap our mind around the reality of the experience of crossing the desert, I am going to take a stab at it. This is written based on what I have learned from talking with migrants at the border retreat, talking with close friends in Mexico who have family working in the US, and talking to people who went through this reality. This is not one person's story, this is a collage of the stories of hundreds. This is my attempt to give a voice to the silent workers that live and work among us.

Imagine if you will...

Working in Mexico, long hours of back-breaking work, horrible conditions, and all for $5 USD per day. Several kids waiting at home with hungry bellies. $5 is not enough. After meals, they are still hungry. You struggle with how that feels as a parent; you are not able to support your family, your blood, the ones you love. You find different jobs but encounter the same reality. Just not enough money.

Eventually you make the heart-breaking decision to leave. You ask every relative, friend, and neighbor to help you raise the overwhelming funds needed to cross the desert. Thanks to increased border measures, the average coyote these days charges $3000 USD to lead a migrant through the desert. On top of that, one must include the transportation to get from home to the border, the costs of food and housing in the meantime, start up costs when arriving in the US, and the inevitable fees that the coyote will include. You make $5 per day. How are you ever going to get this money?

After miracles occur, people come to your aid, and the money is raised you say goodbye to your spouse and your kids with no idea of when you will come back. You walk away from everything you know of home, knowing that you might not survive the crossing and never see your family again.

You get to the border, nervous and anxious and undoubtedly scared. You have a backpack, sturdy shoes, a baseball hat, a warm coat, a few bottles of suero (Pedialite), two gallons of water, some fruit, and painkillers. You wait for the coyote, sometimes for less than a day and sometimes for several days. Your emotions start to pile on top of each other, magnifying with every glimpse in the eyes of the other hopeful migrants waiting to embark on the same journey. While waiting in the border town, you stay at a migrant guest house. The conditions are difficult, but will be better than the desert. You sleep in bunk-beds made of large pieces of plywood that fits your body and four other migrants on each level. You might get a pillow and a blanket, but maybe not. Each level of plywood-supported migrants makes you question your choice and your future.

Time to cross. You climb into a large van with other migrants and the coyote. You drive nearly 90 kilometers to a closer border city. Your group has an option of route with a trade-off of risk of getting caught vs. length of time. Crossings can last anywhere between three to fifteen days, with nothing more than your backpack of supplies. Your coyote makes sure that everyone is ready and your group leaves that night to start the desert crossing. Your group blindly starts the trek, at a jogging pace, with no flashlights or guidance besides the moonlight and the coyote. Your blood is surging, your adrenaline soaring, and your hopes fighting to stay alive. You do not stop until morning. During the days, your adrenaline slows and the exhaustion rises and the sun rises in the desert sky. After one day, your supplies are not sufficient. You are thirsty. The sun sets, it is time to jog again. Blindly. Someone runs into a cactus and the group grudgingly slows to allow the migrant to pull out pinky-length needles. Fear. What about the rattlesnakes, the scorpions, the deadly spiders, and the packs of coyotes following our group in the near distance. What about the Border Patrol that might catch us and make all that money, all those days waiting, all the nights in the desert worth nothing. Cactus is just one of the many dangers. The sun starts to rise. The sun in unrelenting and your thirst is piercing your throat. Your feet are throbbing and blistered. Your stomach is empty and painfully wanting food that does not exist. Dizzy. Faint. You keep going because you must. What other choice is there? This continues for one or several days more.

If you are unlucky, you get caught or you die a slow death of dehydration in the hot, desert sun. Your family is still hungry and alone. If you survived, you will try again and again and again and again until you can't find the hope to cross again. You will return to your family and find yourself even further in the depths of desperation and poverty.

If you are lucky, you make it into the United States. You might have friends or family that is waiting for you with a job and a place to stay. You don't speak the language and feel lost and drowning in a place that flows around you like riptides. You are openly discriminated, told to go home, and even your work pays you less than your US-American counterparts... but the job is better than anything you could have ever found at home. You send home money and make phone calls to your family. You find a group of friends, perhaps Latino that speak your language and understand your struggles as a migrant in the US. You are always afraid of being caught. If there are changes in the job administration, you fear getting found out and losing your job. If you get hurt, you do everything possible to avoid going to the hospital and getting caught. You are careful of always following the laws of a country that wants to reject you. You miss your family, you miss home, you miss what is familiar and you have no idea when you are going to return. The trip to the US was so difficult that you cannot return after seasonal work is over, you cannot return to visit your family. You stay. You don't know how long. Until the family has enough food and can start saving. Until you can build a roof on your house. Until your kids have enough money to go to the doctor. Until your kids can go to school. Until... You stay because you can't find this work at home. You stay because you risked your life to get here. You stay because you can't imagine crossing again. You stay because the "tightened border security" keeps you in. You live outside of yourself. This is not life, this is work. What gives you life is miles away and separated by a Wall and the Border Patrol and a desert that claims hundreds of lives every year.

febrero: Faith and immigration

I am a person of faith. Therefore, I also have to consider the issue from that perspective. How do we confront the needs of the strangers in our midst as people of faith, be it faith in Christianity, Judaism, Islam, or just plain old faith in the human spirit to do what we know to be right? How can we balance the secular need of a nation to have controls on the flow of migration while still being conscientious of our call to care for our neighbors who are dying of starvation at home and dying in the desert to feed their families?

John Fife explained, “There’s just no wiggle room. I’ve looked, and I can’t find any.”

This is what John Fife, a former Presbyterian minister discussed with our group during our border immersion retreat. He admitted that serving our brothers and sisters that are strangers in our midst is one of the most difficult duties for people of faith. He told us that the Bible only has to tell us once to love our neighbor, “God knew we’d get that one pretty easy.” Afterall, it is easy “love thy neighbor” when the “neighbor” is someone like us, a look in the mirror at a familiar face. The challenge is when we have to love, just as genuinely and just as equally, the stranger in our midst as if he or she were a neighbor too. Fife reminds us that “The Torah, or Old Testament, had to tell us that one 17 times; He knew we’d have a bit more trouble with it.”


Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’
-Matthew 25: 34-40


Fife was a cofounder of the First Sanctuary Movement during the 1980s and rallied his church (and several others) to provide sanctuary for political refugees from El Salvador and Guatemala. While US-supported dictators and their Death Squads massacred innocent people by the thousands, Fife found no wiggle room. His faith called him to help start a movement to serve the “least of my brothers.” Hundreds of churches across the nation joined the movement despite lawsuits, convictions, and pressure from the government to stop. Thanks to these congregations that lived into the difficult task of following the faith call to serve our brothers and sisters in need, the US government had to confront the reality of supporting those dictators and put an end to our terrorism of innocent Central Americans.

Today, our ineffective border policies are not decreasing the number or migrants that cross, but are forcing migrants to make life-threatening treks through dangerous desert crossings. In essence, our policies are killing people. Fife still hears the call and is now responding with a new movement that makes my skin tingle and my heart race called No More Deaths. It is a US-American group that pulls volunteers from all over the country (I hope to be one someday too) that fights the unnecessary loss of life every year in the desert by bringing water, food and medical attention to dying migrants. “It isn’t illegal to give someone water” is his response when criticism comes knocking. Although many find this humanitarian aid controversial, he still sees no wiggle room. No More Deaths is calling attention to the harm that our policies are causing. It is controversial, it is raising eyebrows, and it may be frowned upon by hundreds of disapproving US-Americans, but it is an inspiring example of how one man is following his faith that calls him to serve the needs of the strangers in our midst.

febrero: Misunderstandings of migration

These are some common phrases that I have heard (and I will admit that I have spoken as well). And now, to debunk the myths and misconceptions of an issue we hear so much about.

Migrants want to go to the United States to live the “American dream”
Based on US-American comments that I have heard for most of my lifetime, I think this might be one of the biggest misconceptions out there. Imagine if you will, leaving your spouse and children, your parents, brothers and sisters. Imagine leaving your community and everything you know of “home.” You leave all that behind for a difficult, and life-threatening journey to arrive in a country with a different language and different cultural norms. You also confront people who do not appreciate the work you do and openly discriminate you and tell you to leave. What a dream, huh?
So why do people immigrate? Because they have to feed their families, the same reason people have immigrated for centuries. There are no jobs available at home, and the jobs that exist do not pay enough to support the family. While the cost of living has steadily increased in Mexico, wages have only increased around 3% over the past couple decades. To put that in perspective, US-American wages increase about 3% every year. Additionally, 60% of Mexicans work in the “informal sector” which consists of unregulated jobs like selling artisan crafts in the plaza, working at a street-side food stand, street performers, house cleaners, etc. By “unregulated” I mean that every day is different: these workers might make a hundred pesos one day, and only twenty-five the next. On average, the daily wage earned by the informal sector is about 50 pesos per day (about $5 USD). When we talked to migrants, the highest wage they mentioned earning was $100 pesos per day (about $10 USD) which still was not enough to support families of 5 or more children. To immigrate is not a decision to pursue the “American dream” but rather a decision one is forced to make when all other options are exhausted and food needs to be put on the table.

At the end of the story, it is illegal to go without papers. Why don’t they just get the documents they need?
The process to get papers is extensive and difficult. Even for a tourist visa into the United States, the Mexican individual has to provide the government with bank statements, documents of property ownership, proof of a family-supporting job and income and sometimes even additional documents explaining the purpose of travel. This is difficult for the upper-class or middle-class Mexicans (30% of the country’s population). This is nearly impossible for the people who have come to the point leaving their families to pursue a job in the US. In fact, I know one family that went to such lengths to combine all of their assets (including in-laws) and arrange papers for one person to go to the US to work. If they could get documents to legally enter into the United States, they would, but it just isn’t that easy.

Increased border security and the Wall have decreased immigration
Since 1994, the United States has passed legislation after legislation and spent billions of dollars on hiring more Border Patrol personnel and building the Wall (a 15 foot metal wall in once used crossing points). Governments often quote amount of money spent and number of workers employed to try to measure success. The truth of the matter is, no matter how many figures the government quotes during speeches or in press conferences, the data they always neglect to mention is the number of migrants that successfully cross every year. All that money and all those laws have done nothing to curb immigration. In fact, the numbers have not decreased at all since 1994. Estimates say that 500,000 undocumented migrants cross every year.
So, what have those laws, Border Patrol officers, and Wall done? The migrants that once used to cross safely and freely at border cities to pursue seasonal work are now forced to cross through harsh desert terrain and pay a coyote (guide) ten times the old price. Migrants used to pay $300 USD for the assistance of a coyote and now they are paying over $3,000 USD. The migrants travel only at night with no flashlights or lanterns for fear of calling the attention of the Border Patrol. They blindly walk for anywhere between 3 to 15 days through the desert with nothing more than a backpack, two gallons of water, some fruits, pain medication, and electrolyte drinks (Pedialyte). Aside from cacti with pinky-finger-long thorns (absolutely no exaggeration), scorpions, deadly spiders, rattlesnakes, and packs of coyotes, many migrants also suffer dehydration, heat exhaustion, and starvation. Hundreds die every year, and over 2000 have died since the passing of our increased border security measures. So, once again, what has the Wall and tightened security done? People are forced to cross dangerous desert passes, and die in the process.
What are the other consequences of our border policies and security measures? Because it is so difficult, dangerous, and expensive to cross, many migrants are not returning to Mexico after finishing seasonal work. When we asked the migrants how long they were planning on staying, many told us they wanted to work for two to five years. When we asked if they would like to return to visit families, they said yes but it is just too hard. Through some of my relationships here in Mexico, I know of several family members and friends who are working in the United States. Without exception, almost all of them have stayed longer than planned and have not returned yearly because the process of crossing is just too hard. So, what are our policies doing? They are keeping undocumented workers in the United States.

We need to seal our border so that terrorists cannot enter our country
After 9/11, our nation has understandably been very focused on terrorist activity for fear of another attack. But this argument does not have any ground when referring to border legislation. “Not one suspected terrorist has been apprehended on the US-Mexico border since 9/11.” (from Stop Border Deaths Now, www.rtfcam.org/border/border.htm)

Undocumented immigrants are taking our jobs
Perhaps they are taking jobs, but I do not know many US-Americans that want to sit at a conveyor belt at a factory, folding cardboard boxes for dog treats, for $5 per hour (this is actually a job that Marce had when she worked in the United States). I do not know many children who dream of working as a custodian. I do not see many US-Americans scrambling to spend ten hours a day under a summer sun bent-over picking and carrying heavy loads of fresh fruits for $6 per hour. Also, let us consider the latter example. What if our strawberries were picked by US-Americans earning a wage based on US-American standards? How much would we spend for a small, plastic package of those strawberries at the grocery store? Ten dollars? The inexpensive labor means that we have inexpensive produce, inexpensive manual labor services, and clean buildings. We are quick to blame them for “taking jobs” but slow to appreciate the work that they do and the benefits of comfortable living we receive as a result. So please, the next time that you go to the grocery store and pick up some lettuce, think of how much you might be paying if we didn’t have a migrant labor force.

Immigrants do not pay taxes and are a strain on our social services
Believe it or not, many of them pay taxes, just not in the way we think. They do not pay yearly taxes in April, but many receive paychecks from their jobs. In the same way that money is taken from our paychecks for federal and state taxes and social security, money is taken from their paychecks too. Some of my close friends in Mexico have worked in the United States and they tell me about how they lost that money every paycheck, money that they will never see again because they cannot take advantage of the majority of the federal and state services funded by those taxes and they will never have social security benefits.
When talking with the migrants waiting in the border town, Sarah and Winston met a man who had a huge scar on his hand. When they asked him how he got hurt, he told them that he was injured while working in the United States a few years earlier. He wrapped up his hand and kept quiet about it, afraid of calling attention to him. After nine days, the cut was still so bad that he had to go to the hospital. Terrified of being sent home, he chose not to seek medical attention. This story is a common one, in which migrant workers avoid any social services like hospitals or reporting crimes to the police for fear of being sent back to their home country. Additionally, many social services like workers’ compensation are not available to undocumented immigrants. The strain on social services is not as extensive as what many US-Americans believe.



Now that I have explained some of the misconceptions of immigration that I have heard and believed to be true for most of my life, I am left wondering what is to be done. As a citizen of the US and a future taxpayer upon my return, I believe that continuous and useless spending on building a Wall (a current legislation gaining steam in Texas) or increasing border security is obviously not working the way it is intended. I see it as an extreme loss of tax-payers’ money. I believe that for our own benefit and for the benefit of migrant workers, comprehensive immigration reform needs to be discussed in our country as a relevant and major issue.

febrero: Seeing my parents in Zihuatenejo

My parents decided to escape the Midwestern winter and spend a long weekend in Zihuatenejo, a small beach near Ixtapa on the Pacific side of Mexico. I went out to meet them.

It was a wonderful trip. The beach was set in a bay, a very peaceful and beautiful place. Ixtapa is the hotel-developed town and Zihuatenejo is still a sleepy, fishing town with a fraction of the tourism. I arrived on Friday afternoon and we all got teary - I have been missing them a lot. I put on my bathing suit, grabbed my book, and joined them on the beach. I brought my book, but for the first day or two, we talked almost the whole time. It was great to be able to see each other and catch up without the limitations of phone calls or Skype dates, but just to soak up their company for the first time since August.




We spent the part of Saturday wandering the artisan market downtown and getting a feel for the restaurant possibilities there. While downtown, we stopped by the pier to get information about sport fishing and lucked out. We met a guy, recommended by two groups of Americans that we talked to, and booked our fishing trip. We spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach at the hotel.

We woke up before the sunrise on Sunday and went down to the pier. We bought some sandwiches by the pier to take along, and jumped on board the boat with our guide Adan. We watched the sun rise as we drove out into the ocean, watching the rocky coastline of Ixtapa and Zihuatenejo fade into the distance. During the morning we saw sea turtles, dolphins, and some pretty cool birds of prey that hover above the water and then Kamikaze-style dive into the water for some lunch. Well, we also caught some fish. All three of us caught a sailfish and had a fun time doing it. Both Mom and Dad had some injured fish that didn't fight as much, but my heavyweight fighter seemed to make up the difference (or maybe that is a typical "fisherman's exaggeration"). It was healthy and fighting hard and about 90 pounds according to Alan. In an instant, I went from a mature 23 year old to a helpless 5 year old. Dad helped me and coached me as we both battled the fish to bring it into the boat. As soon as I made any progress, the sailfish would start running again and I would lose all the line I just worked to bring in. Haha, but that is what makes it fun, I suppose. It was the only fish I've caught since lazy afternoons of my childhood at the cabin, dropping a hook and worm into the water and pulling up a bluegill. A little different, I have to say, and quite an exhilarating morning. We went back and relaxed at the hotel until the breathtaking sunset and then went to watch the Super Bowl downtown.







Monday morning was an easy one at the beach, and we grabbed a quick lunch before I dashed off to the airport. It was a rushed goodbye, but fortunately we are going to see each other again in March when they come visit me in Cuernavaca. It was incredible, relaxing, and a grounding weekend for me. I find myself still seeking a lot of comfort in the relationships at home that give me so much life.

enero: A weekend in Michoacán

Sarah, Jenn, and I woke up on a cool January morning last Friday around 4:45am to travel in three buses and one taxi for over six hours… to go see some butterflies. But not just any butterflies, the monarch butterfly colonies that migrate from central Mexico to northern parts of United States and southern Canada near the Great Lakes. It is an incredible journey that takes five generations of butterflies to complete, and scientists still do not fully understand why. I hear it is one of the “Wonders of the World.”

So, we got up before dawn and went to the bus station in Cuernavaca to go to Mexico City. Due to some confusion, we waited at the wrong bus and missed ours. Oops! So we hopped on the next one but that meant that we were going to be pressed for time later. We got to Mexico City and hopped in a taxi with about 45 minutes to go from the southern bus station to the western one… and that meant going through Mexico City during rush hour traffic. Shoot. I sat up front and chatted with our driver, hoping to make friends and have him rooting for us to catch our next bus. We told him to hurry, and he did. He drove in the oncoming traffic lanes, nearly having to jump the sidewalk to avoid a collision, he flowed in and out of lanes with professional ease, and we made it to the western station with ten minutes to catch our bus. Hallelujah! We bought our tickets and hopped on board for a five hour trip to the little town of Angangeo, Michoacán.

Angangeo is a quaint, sleepy, rustic mountain village situated down the mountain from a couple of the monarch sanctuaries. It was also our humble home for the evening. We were welcomed to the area by a cold climate that surprised us all. I would guess that the temperatures floated in the 40’s, getting warmer during the day (and especially in the sun) and much colder at night. We stayed bundled and longed for the heating and fires that we have in the Midwest to cope with cold. Anyway, when we got there we dropped off our stuff at the very basic hostel and decided to trust some guy who offered to drive us up the mountain to the Rosario sanctuary. His truck had seen better days – there was no passenger door knob, the doors had a tendency to swing open, the passenger seat wobbled off its base and there was something clanking in the back… but he was a cool guy and got us up there safe and sound.



El Rosario is the more touristy of the sanctuaries that we visited, which had its advantages and disadvantages. One advantage is that the path to the colony was lined with signs and descriptions of the monarchs… which, of course, we didn’t stop to read. One disadvantage is that there is more destruction of the natural habitat and more people. We made the hike quickly, a pace set by our guide who by now is accustomed to the altitude and thin air at over 11,000 feet. We were all winded right away. But when we got to the colony, wow. I looked at the branches of the trees, hanging down almost vertically, weighed down by dry-looking clumps. I asked our guide if those were old cocoons and he informed me that those were the butterflies. What? A closer look and I saw that they were indeed the butterflies and the undersides of their wings are a brownish color instead of the brilliant orange that they wear on top. Thousands of butterflies in every clump, millions of butterflies in every colony. When the sun started to peek out from the clouds, the butterflies started flying around and occasionally landing on us or making a clumsy crash landing on small bushes near us.





All in all, the trip up to the colony and back down was much faster than we expected. So we hopped back in the trusty truck and made the descent to Angangeo. The town lacks a nightlife… or well, any life at all. We arrived a little after 6pm, walked around the small plaza and went into a couple tourist stores, bought some cereal and milk for dinner, one spoon, and went back to the hostel to pass Sarah’s Tupperware bowl and have something to eat. We sat and chatted a bit and then decided to go try to make something of Angangeo. We went and bought some sweet bread and went to one of the couple restaurants for some hot tea. The owner, Simon, has entertained and fed numerous tourists over the years and showed us his extensive collection of postcards sent from all over the world by the people who came to eat at his little restaurant. He liked practicing English with us, and we practiced our Spanish in response with him. Well, we were back at the hostel before 9pm and not sure what else to do with ourselves. Fortunately, we had been up and going since 5am so at least we were able to fall asleep pretty early and not worry too much about the lack of things to do.

We got up early on Saturday morning to go check out the other sanctuary, Cierra Chincua. We got a ride up the mountain to the base of the sanctuary and met up with our guide, Diego (guides are provided with entrance fee). We were joined by another American named George, an older doctor who was traveling around Mexico for awhile. Diego turned out to be an incredible guide with a wealth of information and flashcards and maps. I was quite impressed. George also proved to be a fun companion, he has lived an inspiring life full of lots of travel and great stories. The sanctuary also ended up being our favorite of the two. Although we were closer to the colony at El Rosario, the Chincua sanctuary was much more serene and untouched by tourism and the logging industry. We got some beautiful views down the mountain of the surrounding area and traveled a bit more of the area to see various parts and terrains of the sanctuary. Afterwards, George payed for our part of the tip and drove us in his rental car back down to Angangeo. We invited him to some lunch at the Restaurante Simon of some quesadillas. Then he hit the road and we picked up our stuff at the hostel to start the 6+ hour trip back home.





It was a fun escape from the city and life in our little corner of this globe. It was wonderful to reconnect with nature and grass and trees (non-existent in Cuernavaca) and I think Sarah especially was in heaven. This seemed like much more of a retreat than any of our volunteer retreats, and I had a great time witnessing one of Mother Earth's wonders.