Redefining “School Readiness” (A Cautionary Tale of Manipulating your Child)

14 Dec

My two and a half year old appears to finally be potty trained, just in time to give me a couple months more or less diaper-free before we start all over again. Really, though, “trained” is quite a stretch; it would be more appropriate to say she’s decided that she does not need diapers anymore, thank you very much. There was really no training involved, because my stubborn, determined child refuses to be trained on anything.

First, of course, we got her a potty, and started talking to her about it. We talked about all the other kids she likes that use a potty, how Mommy and Papi use the potty, etc. etc. She started repeating back to us all kinds of useful information about the potty, but she definitely was not going to use it. Not for a sticker. Not even for sweet bread. So we waited. And waited.

Around here it seems like everyone has their kids out of diapers well before they turn two, but I’m not really sure how they manage that. Conan was potty-trained by his grandmother by the time he was 8 months old, but since it was his (now deceased) grandmother who pulled that off, his mom had no major insights for me. I knew that lots of people just sort of took away the diapers and let things run their course. I had witnessed moms walking around wiping up their kids pee all over the floor, all day long. It did not look like the way I wanted to do things.

But eventually I tried that whole “just take her diaper off” tactic, too. And by then she was at a good stage for it. She did great with not peeing on herself, except she also wouldn’t pee in the potty. She just insisted on having a diaper when she needed to go. I tried “rewarding” her with stickers and all kinds of other treats, but she was having none of it. Until she suddenly decided that it was time, and that was that. At least for pee pee. 

It’s been a similar situation for #2, with her recognizing when she needs to go, but insisting that she needs a diaper, no matter how much I try to cajole her out of it. To try to talk her into it, among other things I’ve used, I remind her that she can’t go to school until she learns to poop on the potty. Kids here start school at age 3- there’s mandatory Pre-kindergarten, and Lucia is already dying to go. She wants to go play with all the kids, and she wants her backpack, please and thank you. “Kids that go to school don’t use diapers,” I tell her from time to time before I reluctantly put her diaper on her. She was interested in this fact, but not at all concerned, and it definitely did not motivate her to retire her diapers. Welcome to life with a strong-willed child.

Her Nonna just brought her the book “Everyone Poops,” which I was hoping would make a difference in the situation. She loves the book, but when we get to the part with kids pooping she’s like, “He goes poopy in the potty, and he goes poopy in a diaper, like Lucia” and that’s that. Alas. But perhaps just talking more about poop without talking about how or why she should poop on the potty was helpful. Or maybe it was just time, finally. But suddenly, last Sunday, she decided to go on the potty. (Maybe it helped that I gave her a book to read while she was sitting there, too?)

She was ecstatic. She wanted to call her Papi, who was out on an errand. “Papi, Lucia went poop in the potty!” she shouted into the phone. “I ready go to school!” Then we called her Abuela. She told her Nonna when she called later. She talked about it all day long. But the next day, home with Papi, she insisted on her diaper again. “Oh, well,” I thought, “sooner or later.”

But the day after that she used the potty again. “Lucia go to school now,” she told her Papi triumphantly. And she used the potty again the next day, and the next. But now every time she goes to the potty she reminds us that she is now ready to go to school, and can she go to school today? No? How about tomorrow?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBJDZVxXx-Y&feature=youtu.be

What have a gotten myself into? I mean, it’s not like I told her that she could go to school as soon as she used the potty. I mostly told her she couldn’t go to school if she didn’t use the potty. I told her that kids who go to school don’t use diapers. I didn’t mean that she could go to school the second she started using the potty. Unfortunately, two year olds are not famous for their comprehension of subtle grammatical differences and the implications of such. She can’t actually start school until next August or September, unless we send her to some private school or day care center which hopefully would convince her that it’s school-like enough. All of this was definitely not in the budget, for the record. Ooops. Every day I learn more things not to do with baby #2. 

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“Plans? What Plans?”

7 Dec

This is what my mom said to show me how “go with the flow” she was going to be on this trip. It’s all fun and games until groups are blocking the airport when you’re supposed to leave, though. Then we can talk about the importance of not making plans as a resident of Oaxaca (unless you’re prepared to constantly have them derailed).

A year ago, our house was “almost finished,” which was an extremely loose definition. Here people who aren’t rich build something to put a roof over their head and then slowly improve it over the course of their lives. In the U.S. you just make mortgage payments; here you make sacrifices and you wait patiently and keep working, and you still might or might not have a nice house before you die (but there’s no mortgage payment, at least). I was only vaguely aware of this, in that way where you’ve noticed a phenomenon but not yet applied it, when we made a plan for Lucia and me coming down to Puerto to “finish the house” last December.

Plans, like owning a house, are also a horse of a different color down here. Many people don’t bother to try to make life plans, because what’s the point? Life is so blatantly not in your control. Not that I believe it’s in your control in the U.S., either, but many things there are indeed much more predictable and reliable than things here.

Our plans to finish the house in a couple of weeks quickly got reduced to “just get the bathroom up and running and then we’ll move our tent from your aunt’s house to our house.” That was after we had changed our plan of me just cooking food in Juquila and taking it down to Puerto and spending a couple of days a week there. As soon as we got here it was obvious that much more help than that was needed; my presence and domestic help just a couple days a week was not going to cut it. Another nice-sounding, well-intentioned plan down the drain- welcome back to Oaxaca, Julia.
My to-do list here is a cross between a cruel joke and my saving grace. It’s helpful and harmful all at once. Without it I’d go crazy, but I know it will never, ever all get done (and daily, probably not even half of it happens). For instance, flu shots have been on my list of things to do for a solid month now, and it still hasn’t happened. Not that I haven’t tried. But all the students at the university were renewing their insurance in November, causing day-long lines in the Preventative Medicine office, so I waited for that to calm down. Then, of course, they were out of the vaccine. So I wait and cross my fingers. I keep multiple lists on paper (the long-term to-do, this week’s necessities, to-do before work today, etc.), so that these dozens of pending to-dos are not all being juggled in my head, stressing me out constantly.

When my mom and Dee were visiting, for the first couple of days, I had that illusion (delusion?) again that you can control your life. We made plans to eat lunch in x restaurant, for example, and then we carried out those plans. We made plans like, “we’ll go swimming in the hotel pool, then take showers, then go for a walk,” and sure enough, we were able to fulfill these plans. Granted, much of this illusion of control was due to money (my mom and Dee’s money, not ours, that allowed us to make those kinds of easy plans). If I had enough money a much larger portion of my plans could happen in a timely manner, too. Like I could probably find a private doctor to give us all the flu shot and go ahead and cross it off my list (although I’d still have to find out who- vaccines are mostly reserved for public institutions, who never have enough, probably because some of it goes to the private sector). But some of the lack of control is also just a cultural difference.

I witnessed this culture clash in action the day my mother-in-law came into town. She had told me she was going to cook some food and bring it down and arrive during my lunch break so we could eat together (my lunch break is about 2 and 1/2 hours long). It sounded like a really great plan. But last time she planned to arrive during my lunch break there was some protest happening with people blocking the road from Rio Grande to here, so she was delayed by having to get out of the van and walk a ways before finding another van for the rest of the route. People around here (my beloved mother in law included) are not famous for their punctuality to begin with, and when you add in all these other common possibilities for delays and cancellations, it’s almost more reliable to count on someone showing up late or not at all than on plans happening as scheduled.

Sure enough, when Conan came to get me on my lunch break his mom was just leaving Rio Grande, a 40-60 minute trip, depending on the circumstances. And even once she arrived, she had other plans and things to do before arriving at the hotel to eat with us- dropping off a chicken at her sister’s house, talk of going to buy some disposable plates, etc. Meanwhile, the gringo faction had made new plans, deciding that we would go to a restaurant instead, and have Paulina’s food for dinner. The logic was that then I could potentially start eating even if Paulina arrived very late, so I had time to eat before returning to work. This logical plan, however, was not destined to be, as is so often the case once there are plans involving more than one person (every single day of the week). There were a couple irritated phone calls between Conan and I, being the go-betweens between my mother, who didn’t know why we were still waiting for Paulina when we’d already changed the plans to accommodate the time changes happening, and Paulina, who absolutely wouldn’t hear of us going to a restaurant when she was bringing delicious home-cooked food. So the minutes of my lunch break ticked away, and once Paulina arrived it was not the leisurely, pleasant lunch it was planned to be- partially because I was running out of time, and partially because I think everyone except Lucia was then irritated and out of sorts. Welcome to Oaxaca, where plans are subject to change 15 times before anything happens.

So I can see why people don’t bother making plans. It’s excessively frustrating. Here you can only count on not being able to count on things. There are the unexpected things that come up, like the airport being blockaded by protesters the day my mom was supposed to fly out (they let passengers in anyway, but we weren’t sure it would happen until we got there). Then there are expected “unexpected” things, like teachers being on strike (which is practically constant here in Oaxaca). Then there’s the institutional lack of commitment. Like when there’s some big construction or remodeling happening, for example, they don’t give an estimated completion date until it’s finished. Most businesses don’t post their hours of operation anywhere, because who wants to be held accountable for that strict of a schedule? The doctor at my insurance company still won’t even give me an official due date on my pregnancy, despite being in my third trimester. (Try planning your students’ exam dates when you’re not sure when your maternity leave actually starts!) It’s a constant adventure.

A year into our move to Puerto, our house is 100 million times more livable than it was (finished, though, it is not). And I’ve accepted that it’ll probably never actually be finished, but hopefully will continue improving through the years. I haven’t lost all hope of being able to make and carry out plans, but I’ve learned to take my own plans and ambitions with a big old grain of salt, a raised eyebrow, and a shrug-it-off-and-have-a-beer attitude, at least on a good day, if not every day. Maybe you’ll come visit and experience it for yourself- just leave your plans at the airport, please.

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Presents and Presence

30 Nov

My mom and her fabulous partner, Dee, are here visiting us this week. They arrived like Santa Claus last Friday, overdressed for the heat, two big suitcases nearly full of stuff and things for us. Much of it was stuff to improve our lives that we can’t get here. They brought more of those foldable cloth boxes for storing stuff (along with colorful duct tape to cover them in so the crickets don’t eat holes in them!). Dee brought us all kinds of new solar toys- including a solar-powered battery recharger, and some beautiful “garden decorations” that light up in different colors at night, which we’ll use to decorate Lucia’s room. My mom brought some other cool and yet inexpensive stuff to decorate Lucia’s room, all part of my wicked plan to lure her into sleeping in her own room before this new baby is born. 

happy visiting!

happy visiting!

“Nonna bring me book?” Lucia asked before she went to the airport to pick them up. “Probably so,” I told her, laughing at how well my two year old knows her Nonna’s habits and joys already. And indeed, despite having just sent Lucia a new book in the mail, her Nonna still had another one in her suitcase, among the other toys and surprises for my little one. (And I love how my sweet kiddo gets excited about anything we call a present.)

They brought things from other people, like hand-me-down maternity clothes from my best friend, and used baby clothes and some Lucia-size clothes from a friend of my mom’s. My dad and stepmom sent me some maternity clothes, and tons of stuff for Lucia- clothes, Elmo underwear, shoes, and a monkey that uses velcro to strap onto her neck, which Lucia hasn’t let go of since.

Lucia and her monkey from Paw-Paw and Gamma

Lucia and her monkey from Paw-Paw and Gamma

They brought things we don’t actually need which are just for fun and pleasure- TV series on DVD for Conan, a giant box of nutritional yeast for me and Lucia (Lucia insists that pasta must have both parmesan cheese and nutritional yeast), natural peanut butter (yes, most of the things I wanted were food-related), a small Woodford Reserve for Conan (I doubt the bourbon will last until after I give birth), puppets for Lucia, and all kinds of other small delights.

It was definitely like Christmas already last Saturday, like Christmas always was at my house as a kid- you’d get new sheets and other things you needed, and it was just as exciting as the fun new toy or the skateboard you’d dreamed of.

And then to top it all off, when we’d already had more than enough presents, they swooped in and rescued us from a severe financial stress. Our car was getting flats like every other day, running off some sad wheels from ten years ago. We kept getting them patched or replacing them with another cheap used tire that would bust on us soon. Conan and Dee and my mom conspired and researched and surprised me on Thursday with four brand-new quality tires, totally relieving a giant stressor from our life- yet another huge gift on top of the plethora of gifts they’d brought!

All of this help- the presents, the meals out, the new tires- was nothing compared to the joy of having them here. Conan’s mom visiting from Juquila is about the only visitor we’ve had since our wedding in February, so a visit from the north was feeling very overdue. I was nervous about how it would work with my crappy work schedule. We pulled off as much visiting as we could in the hours of my lunch break and the couple hours between when I get off and when I fall over in bed from exhaustion at night. They’ve come over to our house some for homecooking, and they’ve bought us lots of meals out. They’ve hung out with Lucia and let Conan get some work done while I’m at work. They kept Lucia over night. Last weekend and now this one, too, they’ve shared their hotel room with us, so it’s been like having a special beach vacation away from home. A vacation with internet, electricity, a refrigerator, a pool, and most of all, really good company.

Dee and Conan have had lots of good talks and male bonding adventures since Dee arrived. Dee is also great with Lucia and a general pleasure to be around. And of course, my mom is my mama, who I’ve always been super close to and have missed horribly since I moved. The past few months, as some things have gotten more difficult in my life, she’s been awesome at keeping in touch with me by phone and by email almost daily, which helps tremendously. But there is nothing like having your mama in the same town as you, talking and chatting live and in person, eating a meal together, hugging.

Today is the last full day they will be here, and I’m kind of in denial about it. I don’t want to think about the goodbye, now or later. I don’t want to think of another Christmas I won’t see most of my family. I don’t want to think about giving birth and my mama not being there the same day. It won’t be too many months before their next visit, but it still stinks to have all my family so far away. It’s fabulous to have Conan’s wonderful family close, but it doesn’t replace mine by a long shot. Presence is more powerful and more rewarding than all of the presents combined- even our new tires, which we would’ve gotten eventually without them.

The best gift is their presence, and the memories I’ll hold onto in these coming months while we wait for the next visit- from them, from my dad and stepmom, and who knows who else. Second to that, though, is another material thing that my mama brought me. I don’t know how much money it cost, and it doesn’t have any concrete purpose like the duct tape or the DVDs. But symbolism has a powerful effect on our lives and can carry us through moments of loneliness, heartache, and worse. This is what she brought me:

circle of women

It is a circle of women- my womenfolk, my strength, my source, much of my joy in life. It is a representation of all who can’t be physically here with me in this moment- because of geography, or death- but who are always with me. It is a reminder of their presence in my life, which, short of their physical presence, is the best present I could dream of. 

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The Science of Magic (A Visit to the Partera)

23 Nov

I didn’t really want to go to this particular midwife (partera), because of our friend Chica’s telling us about the woman’s uncanny ability to accurately predict a baby’s sex. Conan and I are into surprises. We didn’t find out Lucia’s sex and we planned the same exciting ignorance with this current creature in my belly. But said creature was killing me with his/her positioning and movement and I was desperate for a cure. I was on my second day of come-and-go pain that in moments was so bad I had trouble walking and talking normally.

I’d already been to the doctor to rule out an exploding appendix or other non-baby-caused problems. As soon as I lay down in the office, late that evening of day one of pain, I’d felt some very hard appendage (foot? elbow? I don’t know) move up even further to the top of my giant belly and push out so far it protruded, like a cruel little taunt. The doctor pressed on it and I almost screamed. I went ahead and diagnosed myself with Mean Acrobatic Baby Syndrome. The doctor told me to come back the next day for an ultrasound to confirm that the pain was being caused by baby’s crappy positioning (he called it “compound presentation,” but whatever). “So, the point of the ultrasound is just to tell me that yes, this creature is in a bad position. It won’t actually help anything. Correct?” I asked. He had to admit that was the case. “And how about if I just go see a midwife, then, and get her to correct the positioning?” I suggested, although I’d really already decided by then that that was my plan, regardless. The doctor agreed that this was a reasonable thing to do, because here in Mexico even doctors respect midwives’ knowledge and abilities for the most part. 

Part of what midwives do down here is give massage- therapeutic massage, not a nice little relaxing massage. If you’ve had a miscarriage, you’re likely to go to a midwife to get a massage that’s supposed to help make sure the miscarriage is complete. If you want to get pregnant and haven’t been able to, they give massage to help with that. Some give massages related to other problems besides pregnancy. They are often skilled herbalists as well. And of course, being midwives, they assist in giving birth.

Chica led us (in the car) down a rocky dirt path to the midwife’s house. Chica is related to her, somehow or other, addressing her as “Tia” (Aunt), which here can also be a second or third cousin or any manner of other connection via blood and marriage. The midwife is 95 years old and retired now. At her request, Conan got some plastic chairs out of her second room, and we sat out on her porch to chat. She told us a bit about her life as a midwife, which she had been her entire adult life. Then she told us “something you won’t believe.” She said she had lost all of her teeth and couldn’t even eat tortillas, and then they started to grow back. They didn’t look like new teeth, and they certainly weren’t false teeth, either- there were only a few on the bottom of her mouth, and they were crooked and yellowed and some were just little nubs of teeth. But Chica and her husband swear that she had no teeth not too long ago. It sounds to me like something straight out of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. I decided to maintain a skeptical belief;  I can’t prove that it’s true nor that it’s not, so I’ll just go with the “anything’s possible” attitude. It is, after all, a strange and mysterious world that we live in.

Finally we got down to business. She set me up in her bed with a shawl underneath me. She started feeling around on my belly, much softer and gentler than what I was expecting to move this stubborn confused baby around.

getting adjusted by the partera

amazing hands moving around the baby

the partera working on me

 

“Es niña” she says matter-of-factly, it’s a girl, without asking if we want to know, without asking if we already know or not. “How can you tell?” asks Conan. “You can tell by feeling it. They let you know right away.”  Conan tries to insist on further explanation. “But how do they let you know?” She says she can’t explain it; you just have to feel it. I decide she’s probably right, but I will stubbornly remain in “ignorance,” waiting till this child presents him or herself to know “what it is.”

She finished moving the baby around and then grabbed each end of the shawl underneath me and sort of shook me around, as much as a frail 95 year old might. We thanked her profusely and gave her 100 pesos for her time. She told us to come back when I go into labor and she can give me a tea to speed up the birth “so they don’t try to operate on you.”

The adjustment was not a magical fix. I was pain-free for a couple hours, but by my 4pm class I was in terrible pain again. After that, however, I rubbed around where the baby was and talked to it when it started giving me problems, and the pain lessoned. In the morning I had cinnamon tea, recommended because she said my belly was very cold (whatever that means). I had some more pain that morning but then it was over. Days later I haven’t had any more pains. Is this attributable to the midwife? To some tea? Did the baby just get their act together? Does it matter why?

Do I believe that her teeth grew back, or that she knows my baby’s a girl? I’m sticking to my skeptical belief. Maybe it’s so, maybe it’s not. It’s living that line between needing to question everything but also knowing that there are some things that are not really explainable. It’s trusting centuries of women’s wisdom in midwifery while also appreciating seeing a baby via ultrasound. It’s trusting how I feel and what I know about my body, sometimes more than what a doctor says. It’s believing in the science of magic, which is definitely what it means to me to produce a new human being anyway. 

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Laughter is my Number One Classroom Tool

17 Nov

My level one English students had an open-book quiz the other day, where they were supposed to write 5 things they had learned that week from the article we’d read (and thoroughly dissected) in class. This is more difficult than it might sound for first-level students of a foreign language. I believed my students were capable of it, to greater and lesser degrees, depending on the student, but writing assignments for this level never come out quite like I had imagined, and grading them is always a bigger chore than I’d remembered.

The title of the quiz, written at the top of the page, was “What I Learned”- a fitting title considering they only had to convince me that they’d learned something that week. As I was doing a first glance-through of their answers, I looked at the bottom of the page of one student’s paper. In all caps, this student had written:

NO PUEDO APRENDER ESTA SEMANA SORRY! ES QUE NO VINE DOS DIAS SÉ QUE VOY A REPROBAR ESTE QUIZ!

which translates to: I can’t learn this week sorry! because I missed class for two days I know I’m going to fail this quiz!

I exploded in laughter and went to go show the other teachers. I appreciated his honesty and forthrightness, and his expression of it got points for cuteness, too. It’s these little things that are so important to my day, to my teaching, to my psychic survival in general. A silly note to break up the monotony in trying to assign fair values to someone’s writing made a difference, made me laugh. These past couple of weeks I’ve been focusing on remembering to lighten up and laugh, even when (especially when) I’ve been thinking about running out of the room screaming in frustration because five students didn’t bring their book, two students don’t even have their notebook, and at least 75% of them are asking me what a word means that was vocabulary I “taught” them the day before.

But there’s still plenty to enjoy, and things to laugh about. If you don’t find those moments of laughter you risk converting yourself into one of those grumpy, bitter teachers that nobody likes  and who are not effective teachers because students avoid their classes and have their guard up the whole time, which is not conducive to learning. NOT who I want to be.

And I’ve never been at risk for this before because when I was teaching in the U.S., most of the immigrants and refugees in our adult education classes were trying their damnedest all the time. You expected problems and setbacks and slow progress. You expected someone to show up 30 minutes late, probably because of some problem with their kid or their job, which you can’t really be upset about. There were lots of limitations and problematic aspects, and accomplishments usually happened very slowly (particularly with my beginning level students), but for the most part people were there because they wanted to be there and truly wanted to learn English. That, in turn, helped motivate me more to want to be there and give it my all every day. Plus, my grown-up immigrant students almost never tried to cheat on tests. Totally different universe from now.

With my university students we’ve just implemented a new curriculum, which is focused on reading comprehension and the necessary vocabulary that goes with that, skills they need to be able to read scientific articles related to their majors in English. There’s less time and space for games and speaking practice and the like, and so my teaching style is adapting and changing.

I’m not sure if it’s just the change in curriculum, or personal problems, or what exactly, but suddenly I found myself fighting with students on a daily basis over something or the other. For talking while others are talking, not being prepared for class- all the normal stuff, even if some of it is stuff I think university students should be above and beyond. The problem is that I don’t want to be fighting with them over these things, because it puts me in a bad mood. I want my class to be fun and interesting and comfortable (for them and for me), and I was failing at creating that atmosphere for a good couple of weeks there.

So I had to start letting go of some things, and bringing other things back into my classroom. I had to bring back games, at least occasionally. I had to find a way to show them that I care beyond just scolding them all the time. I had to just tell myself that the next class would be better when I had a horrible hour full of blank stares and mounting confusion despite all my attempts at detailed explanation and modeling.

So sometimes we play jeopardy-style games with comprehension questions, even though most of them are too excited to listen to the reasoning behind the answer when we do it as a game. At least they’re participating. I started being more exaggerated in my scolding, wagging my finger, or feigning shock so intense I could faint at any moment, which at least made whatever I was reminding them about lighter and funnier. I brought back my sunshine and lollipops I’m-so-happy-to-be-here-and-I-know-you-all-are-too attitude when I come into class. When I told them they’d have to miss English class for a couple of days (because I had to go to Oaxaca), I told them, “Now try not to cry. I know everybody’s upset about missing class, but that’s why I came up with some practice for you, so you don’t spend all that extra time moping about English class.” The ones who understand sarcasm are always highly amused by these kinds of statements. It helps.

I started being “meaner” and stricter about some things, kicking people out of class when they’re totally out of line. Like those three girls that insisted their private conversation was more important than the student explaining her answer, despite a couple warnings. Or the students who still didn’t bring their book after days of warnings (and really, guys, you have English every day; just leave your book in your backpack). Or for talking during a test (yeah, yeah, you were talking about lunch, that’s great, bye.) Some of my students have started imitating me when someone comes without their book, telling them “See you tomorrow!” and waving good-bye like I do, which I think is pretty hysterical. This more focused strictness, in turn, lets me have a better attitude with my remaining students, and the next day the student can return to class and I, at least, don’t hold a grudge.   

And I’m reevaluating how I measure success. For example, if a third of my class is missing all week long (a different set of students every day, to boot) because they all have to go renew their health insurance plan this week and they’re waiting in line all day, well, so be it. They know it’s their job to catch up, and they either will or they won’t. Unless they come to my office with questions about what they missed, it is all on them. When they ask me in class the next day something we saw in class the day before, I smile while I tell them to ask their classmates. I cannot be angry or upset about it. I know English is not their top priority, to say the least. I know many of them won’t learn even half of what I’m trying to teach. Thus, the measure of my personal success can’t be all 120ish students getting every point I teach. Can I continue to care about each and every student and their learning? To a greater or lesser degree, yes. But how I feel about my teaching has to be based on how well I think I’ve done my part, keeping in mind that they’ve got a part to fill, too, and some of them won’t fill it for reasons that are not my fault or my problem.   

Really my top two priorities in my classroom are respect and laughter. Yes, critical thinking is high on my list of important things for them to practice in their reading comprehension. I did a big dance of joy when some of my level one students starting arguing the correct answer and asking “Why? Por qué?” just like I do. Of course I have to give them the right tools to accomplish what they are supposed to accomplish. But I think mutual respect and a sense of humor are completely necessary parts of my other goals, because I think they help create a positive learning environment, and effectively prevent me from killing students.

So I take a moment and argue with my level 3 students who are trying to convince me to have the quiz tomorrow instead of today. “That’s what my two year old says every day when it’s time to wash her hair, too. ‘No, tomorrow’- just like you guys.”

I can laugh when one of my male nursing students ignores my question about the reading to tell me earnestly, “Teacher, let me know when your baby’s kicking so I can feel it,” despite the fact that men here normally don’t go near anything related to pregnancy. “Have you ever felt a baby kick before?” I asked him, instead of being offended. “No,” he explained, “that’s why I need to feel it!” I laughed and told him I’d see.

I corrected a student who was talking (in English) about going to buy a “box” of beer (what we would call a case of beer) and somehow got into a conversation about learning obscenities in English (no, sorry guys, I cannot teach this during class time. Just go to the beach and talk to tourists.)

I’m remembering to have fun and enjoy my job. While I don’t have any proof that it’s getting me better results in terms of student learning, it’s sure not hurting them, and it’s doing wonders for me. You can’t underestimate the importance of a little laughter in the classroom, or a personalized note on why you’re failing the quiz. It’s these things that make all the difference in the world. 

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Fighting with Bureaucracy, Oaxaca City Style

9 Nov

It´s a bit confusing to have a daughter with dual citizenship, and it´s about to get more complicated, with a new kiddo born here soon. Lucia was born in Kentucky and moved down here at 7 weeks of age. We barely managed to get her US passport, her birth certificate, and her Mexican birth certificate from the consulate while we packed up and sold all our stuff and learned how to be new parents at the same time. It was a whirlwind, but we made it.

Lucia and I both entered Mexico on a 6 month tourist visa, although we knew we´d need to sort out that situation for both of us sooner or later. We´ve been out of Mexico enough times so far that it hadn´t been a problem, until this last trip when her tourist visa was expired by one day. They wouldn´t let us get on the plane in Mexico City until we sorted it out with immigration there, which is a totally different epic story. Luckily I had her Mexican birth certificate and other relevant documentation, and we did make it to the plane on time. But they warned me then that we had to sort out her status before her next tourist visa expired.

Apparently, the way to sort it out is by obtaining her Mexican passport. So even though technically she is already a Mexican citizen by virtue of her Papi´s citizenship, we still needed another document. I put it off and put it off, because Mexican passports for children under 3 years old only last one year, so it´s a lot of hassle and money for something very temporary. On top of it only lasting a year, the three of us all have to be present in Oaxaca City to get her passport. So what would only cost about one day´s salary is really a multi-day expensive trip, including me having to take off of work unpaid for 2 days. And it has to get done before her latest tourist visa expires in a couple weeks, or we would be fined.

The good news was that we worked it out to get a ride with a good friend of Conan´s who had some business to take care of in Oaxaca City this Thursday and Friday, and we have a fabulous family friend who lives there who was willing to put us up for free and keep us company to boot. I got the official permission to miss work on those days, prepped my classes accordingly, got us packed during my break on Wednesday, and was feeling pretty optimistic about the whole situation when I walked out of work right at 7pm, where I was going to get picked up so we´d arrive in Oaxaca City around 2 or 3 AM.

There had already been some obstacles that I hoped we had overcome, but that I was still nervous about. First off, to provide identification for a two year old, you have to get a special note from their doctor, with the doctor´s signature on top of the photo and some other special details. Nevermind that my child already has a US passport, it has to be the doctor´s note to prove it’s her (bureaucrat logic). Since we don´t have a doctor we like to take her to regularly in Puerto yet, our only option was to either bribe a doctor, or go to the doctor that knows her in Juquila (a 3 hour venture from home). We went to Juquila for Day of the Dead last weekend, so we thought we´d get it then. But her doctor said he wouldn´t have time to do it till Monday afternoon. Paulina said she’d send it to us in one of the vans that go from Juquila to Puerto, but I was terrified it wouldn´t be how we needed it and we’d be scrambling at the last minute to bribe someone in Puerto. But we got it on Tuesday and it appeared to have all the requirements listed on the internet, so I was hopeful.

My other big fear was over our appointment. When I went to make it online, I had to put in a CURP (Clave Unica de Registro de la Población, sort of like a Social Security Number in the US). We haven’t gotten Lucia’s CURP yet, so I asked the online help line if I could put in my CURP to make the appointment.

“No,” Marta or somebody told me, “it must be the CURP of the person the appointment is for.”

Breathing deeply, I argued my case. “But they told me when I called for information that we didn’t need her CURP to get a passport.”

She wrote back, “Correct. You don´t need it for the passport. You need it to make the appointment, which you must have in order to get the passport.”

“So I can’t actually get her passport without her CURP then.” I gave up on Marta and her online unhelpfulness and tried to call the 800 number to make appointments. The nice guy on the phone let me make the appointment with my CURP. But I was still crossing my fingers they wouldn’t turn us away at the door for using my CURP instead of Lucia’s. After all, we are talking about bureaucrats, who I often believe are not in their human form while on the job.

But there we were, ready to go, múltiple copies of everything filed away, pretzels and oatmeal cookies for the road, and the first glitch happened. I walked out of work and Carlos’s car was nowhere to be found. Conan’s phone was busy. Not a good sign.

“Carlos is going to Oaxaca next week, not tonight.” Conan announced when he called me a few minutes later. I still don’t know if Carlos changed his dates or Conan misunderstood or what exactly caused this glitch, but it didn’t matter because the result was the same- we didn’t actually have a ride to Oaxaca. I utilized all of my I-have-a-toddler-and-it’s-also-not-my-first-day-in-an-unpredictable-country skills to not have a panic attack. I did send my mom a message that was more curse words than real words, however, and then I continued to breathe.

We went and got tickets for tbe 9.30 PM van trip to Oaxaca City. It was just too risky to take our car on those winding mountain roads with zero preparation and zero extra time before our appointment the next morning if anything went wrong. The worst part about the van situation was that we now weren’t taking Lucia’s car seat. Partly because we didn’t have the money to buy her own seat and partly to not lug around a car seat in the city. I briefly entertained the super nervous Mommy guilt of “so if something happens to Lucia I have to tell the family it was because we didn’t spring for her own seat on the trip”…. and then I continued breathing and let it go.

We got to our friend Argelia’s house around 5.30 in the morning with no accidents and no major glitches, thank goodness. Except that I hadn’t slept at all, had only dozed for about 3 hours in that half-awake, making-sure-my-sleeping-kid-doesn’t-fall-out-of-the-seat way that parents do. But Arge’s warm reception and good conversation, combined with coffee I made stronger with Nescafe and a warm shower, did wonders for me, and we were ready to go to our 9AM appointment by 8.

We arrived early and waited in the first line, for the preliminary inspection of our documents. “This letter from the doctor isn’t right,” the woman told us, and I almost stopped breathing. “Where did you get this? You didn’t get the format from here, did you?” She asked, showing us a generic example format for the letter.

“No,” I explained, “We got the requirements from the website. And I called and talked to the Subdelegada who told me that all the requirements were the way it is detailed online. That example format is not online.” Did they really expect people to travel from all over the state just to pick up an example form, travel back to their town and show it to their doctor and then make the journey all over again? You just can’t be sure about these people. I mentioned that we’d come from Puerto Escondido, that I’d taken off work for two days to be there, just in case there was any bit of sympathy in her little bureaucratic heart. “I’ll go check on it,” she told us, only a little reluctantly.

“Okay, you can use it,” she told us when she came back to her post. She gave us another form to fill out and sent us to go fill it out on a bench. She did not give us a pen (but I always have about 10 in my purse, so no glitches there).

After filling out the form we went and stood in line at a different counter. I realized the appointment thing was only another excuse for them to turn people away, and did not signify anything in terms of when our paperwork would be seen. But it was our turn pretty quickly with Mr. Grumpy Older Guy, and the process continued. We started signing and fingerprinting and all that other good stuff. It seemed that things were going smoothly until we got to the backside of the form, almost at the end.

“I need the father’s birth certificate,” Mr. Grumpy announced.

“What?” I hoped that I was hallucinating that. Surely he’d said something else, because there was no indication or mention anywhere about bringing Conan’s birth certificate. Not in the online requirements. Not in the two phone calls I’d made to ask specifics about our situation. Not in the online help center chats. I most certainly did not have Conan’s birth certificate with me.

“You have to prove the little girl’s right to Mexican citizenship.” he explained. I guess the Mexican birth certificate was not enough.

“I have his Mexican passport!” I announced hopefully, smiling a tense, clownish version of a smile.

“Let’s see it.” I handed it over, along with the copy I’d made (yay for being prepared!). Mr. Grumpy pulled out his white out and started blanking out the numbers of Conan’s other ID on the form. He let it dry and tried to write in the passport numbers in its place. It looked messy. He frowned harder. “No, it’s no good,” he said, and I held my breath again. “You’re going to have to fill out the form again.”

Once I realized that we just had to redo the form and not this whole trip I proceeded to breathe and went to go rewrite the form. I finished that and we got back in Mr. Grumpy’s line, beginning the fingerprinting and signature thing anew. Finally we successfully completed that round and Mr. Grumpy smiled at us and sent us to the next step- the photographing area.

We’d already gotten Lucia’s photos made but in that room we did digital fingerprinting and signatures. Then we got sent to the next counter and turned it all in to a different lady and another inspection. “Come back at 1PM to pick up the passport,” she said, and my heart did a little dance of joy.

We had breakfast and strolled around Oaxaca’s pretty downtown with Argelia to pass the time. We returned to the office shortly before one and approached the final counter. The lady handed Conan the passport, telling him to make sure it was correct, and then sign that he’d received it. Then I looked at it and was about to sign when she said, “Oh, wait, let me go check on this problem.” I breathed deeply. The passport was already printed and ready to go- what could be the problem now?

“Can I see your identification again?” she asked wheen she came back. I handed over both my passport and my permanente resident card. “Ah, yes.” she said, almost to herself. “Here’s the problem.” She pointed severely at my signature on the the form we’d filled out twice that day. “Look at this.” I looked. It looked like my signature. I was sure I had been the one to sign it. I nodded. “Now look at this.” She pointed at my signature on Lucia’s Mexican birth certificate that I had signed over two years before. Also definitely me that signed there. I nodded again, without a clue what her point was, but understanding that I was in trouble for something. Sloppy handwriting? I waited for the punchline.

“They look nothing alike. Can’t you tell?” I think I just looked at her, unsure what I was supposed to do. It’s true that I have a sloppy signature that I rattle off quickly, the letters not forming their true cursive form, and that is never, ever exactly the same. It always has enough resemblances, though, that I’ve never been questioned before. But Ms. Patient Teacher was not pleased with me.

“Okay,” I told her, like I’d learned my lesson. “Sorry. You see how it is a bit different on both of these IDs, too.” All of them were my signature, though, was my point.

“Well, to prevent the theft of children these signatures have to match,” she told me. “You’re going to have to sign here,” she pointed to the place beside my unacceptable signature on the form, “exactly like you signed here.” She pointed to my signature on Lucia’s birth certificate. “If you can’t sign it the same then we’ll have to do all of this all over again.” I’m pretty sure all the color drained from my face.

“But here,” she said cheerily, “I’ll make you a copy of this form with your correct signature and you can practice it.” And I practiced. And practiced. And every single signature looked different, like always. Argelia tried to help me trace over the copy, but the light wasn’t good enough to trace effectively.

I practiced some more. I shed a few furious, frustrated, sleep-deprived, indignant tears. “This is so ridiculous!” I raged quietly to Conan. “I have multiple forms of ID. They watched me sign the form. They have my fingerprints. My child is here calling me Mommy. And I’m not going to get her passport because I can’t appropriately forge my own signature!”

Some of my 80,000 attempts to write my own signature "correctly"

Some of my 80,000 attempts to write my own signature “correctly”

Finally I managed one that I believed looked more or less like the target signature. I went to ask Ms. Patient Teacher if it would pass. She went to get approval from her boss. I got the ok. I got a no on whether I could just cut and paste the approved signature. I had to reproduce it on the correct form. I tried to continue breathing and not cry. I practiced it some more, trying to copy exactly what I had done, the slowest form of my signature ever. At last I announced that I was ready to try it on the real thing. If it didn’t work, I supposed we’d come back the next day and try again. I was out of energy.

I signed next to my inappropriate signature, slowly and steadily. And then I had to sign exactly the same again to say that I’d received the passport. I got a bad start the second time and had to lift the pen and take some deep breaths before I could continue. I hadn’t been prepared for the second one. But I signed it, and Ms. Patient Teacher went to go see if it was okay or not. I held my breath.

She came back and handed me the passport. “Here you go. Bye.” And that was that. I was actually in possession of Lucia’s Mexican passport. A miracle had happened. It was over, and we accomplished the feat we’d set out to accomplish, despite all the unexpected demands and absurd obstacles. It was another win for humanity, another triumph over mindless, cruel bureaucracy. Granted, they got a point or two in for my near panic and those couple of tears shed, but we walked out of the office in just one day with our desired document in hand. And now I have several months to keep practicing my signature before we have to go back and do it again. Bring it on, bureaucracy, I am ready for you now.

TA-DA! Mission accomplished! Dual passports for our first little dual citizen!

TA-DA! Mission accomplished! Dual passports for our first little dual citizen!

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Trading Out Halloween

2 Nov

“Look at this sweet baby, 100% Mexican now” my father-in-law, Arturo, would say about Lucia soon after our arrival. Although even then, despite my hormones still raging, I suspected that his intentions were not malicious, it was still difficult not to let the steam shoot from my ears in offended rage. “Nope, she’s still just 50% Mexican,” I had to insist every time. Because it felt like I was being written off in that equation- my half of the genes, my more than half of the work of bringing her into this world, not to mention whatever unquantifiable portion of raising her that I am responsible for. It felt painful and malicious, even if my vague sense of rational brain 2 months postpartum could theoretically not take it personally. I think I can assert now, 2 years later, that Arturo was mostly just excited to have Lucia here (mostly, though, because he does have a bit of a nationalist streak, too).

I can’t predict exactly how Lucia will feel about or choose to represent and explain her “50/50” identity when she’s older. I imagine that it will change tremendously at different points in her life, just like everyone’s identity does. All of us, of course, no matter where we grow up, are a giant mix of influences. I doubt anyone thinks of themselves as exactly 50% like their father and 50% like their mother. So what does it mean to have parents from two different countries? What does it mean to have dual nationality? What does it mean for my “half” of the heritage that she grows up in her father’s land, in this culture? And when my half is a weird mix of a mix of cultures anyway, thanks to the strong Italian influences on my mom’s side of the family?

All parents want their kids to be like them in the good ways, and hopefully not follow in their footsteps in their faults or weaknesses. If only life were that neat and tidy, right? Similarly, I would like Lucia (and her future brother or sister) to have only the best of both (all) cultures, please and thank you.

I hope she appreciates all the fabulous parts of Oaxacan culture, and can reject some of those nasty sides, or that we can minimize their impact at least. For instance, I hope she shares her bag of chips or cookies with those around her without needing to be asked, the way people automatically do here (such a small gesture,but poignantly important). I hope she can learn how to rely on friends and family for help without having a complex about it, just knowing that we all have to help each other to get by in life. But we’re gonna have to figure out some alternative educational situation, because the public school system down here is a famously poor and corrupt one. (Although her Papi went to public schools and still managed to have enough outside influences in his education to actually learn things, so there is hope.) I’m sure her Papi could give a much bigger list of things he hopes to impart to her from his childhood culture, and pitfalls he wants to avoid. But that’s his part to tell, not mine.

For my part, for her Kentucky (and Italian-American!) half, I’d like Lucia to have some fabulous corn bread and greens recipes, for example. I’d like for her to avoid entirely that whole “the U.S. is the biggest-baddest-bestest place on Earth that should control the rest of the world because it’s really the only place God approves of” sort of mentality. I hope she can appreciate a good bourbon with her mama (and her papá) when the time is right. I hope that she can spend enough time in the U.S. or somewhere else with more racial and ethnic diversity than here. That she can learn first-hand about many people’s customs and heritage that are different from hers (and not just different because she’s the weirdo half-gringa)- something possible in Louisville, Kentucky, but not too likely here. I want her to be able to appreciate the importance of a good stoop or porch, to sit out on in the evening and be social with the neighbors, perhaps with some iced tea (or bourbon!). I hope that despite the distance she can have some equally strong bond and pleasant associations of her grandparents in the U.S., the way I think about my Nonna getting together with my mom and my aunt, eating Doritos and Diet Coke, salami and really good quality whole wheat bread that my Nonna would buy.

We can already see some of this working itself out. Conan and I, thus far, are her biggest influences, and she mostly does what we do. She eats her vegetables and tries chorizo with her Papi. She devours tamales and al dente pasta with equal gusto. She speaks English and Spanish. She says please and thank you and washes her hands before meals, because that’s what we’ve taught her, mostly by example. Most of the things from my upbringing and heritage that I want for her I can (attempt to) instill in her myself. I can cook her cornbread. We can listen to Hank Williams (Sr.) together. We can even catch fireflies and sit out on the porch.

But there are some things that I loved as a child, some things that I still hold dear, that I probably won’t be able to provide. I can’t teach her to lick honeysuckle. She’ll probably never know about snow days, and getting off school and going sledding. And sadly, tragically perhaps, I don’t get to share my joy of Halloween with her.

Missing Halloween is a really big deal to me. Bigger than all the other U.S. holidays that we’re not there for. (About as heartbreaking as missing WorldFest, the yearly festival of cultures in Louisville) I adore Halloween. Starting with costumes and the whole idea of dress-up. When I was a kid, I loved deciding on a costume, which usually my parents would put together (not those store-bought costumes). I dressed up as things like a camera, a 3-headed alien, and Catwoman (with homemade “boots,” shiny plastic-ish material with holes cut for laces to put on my shins). As I teen I had fun with ironic dress-up, going as Barbie one year, helping my mom dress up as a punk rocker. I still love seeing what my outlandish friends can come up with, too, although perhaps the trio that one year that did the twin towers with airplane costume crossed the line.

As a kid, we would trick or treat for hours on end, my friends and my sister and I complaining that we were ready to go home, my mom and her friend denying us, telling us we were crazy to give up on the candy so early. They’d convince us to go a while longer, and sure enough, it was always worth it in the end. My dad would go crazy in competition with the neighbors to have the scariest, most creative Halloween decorations on the block, adding new stuff every year- a skeleton hanging from a noose, a stuffed Jason-like character sitting on the porch swing.

I love the idea of Halloween as a night when the veil between the worlds of the dead and the living is thin. I love the scariness of it all, the horror film reruns, the possibilities that come with invoking something beyond the day-to-day. I love that it is a day (a night, really) of fun and magic and sweets, and not the sort of high-pressure let’s-hope-the-family-can-get-along holiday like Christmas. It’s not a shady celebration of colonization like Thanksgiving, nor a holiday based on a religion that I have lots of issues with. It’s the U.S. holiday I most want to share with Lucia. And it’s not celebrated where we live.

But there is Day of the Dead, a two-day long celebration which is equally fabulous, although different from Halloween (I wrote about it in detail two years ago- https://exiletomexico.wordpress.com/2012/12/03/a-visit-from-the-dead-multi-cultural-style/) It’s something her Papi grew up with and loves, and it’s a holiday for the whole family. I have to accept that I can’t give her all the same good things from my childhood, but there’s lots of good stuff from Conan’s childhood, too. There is plenty of joy to be shared, from here and from there, adding things we make up all our own as a family. So I’ll keep cooking pasta al dente for the Day of the Dead altar, to honor my Italian grandmother alongside the mole for Conan’s grandmother. We’ll have to appreciate all the good stuff no matter where it comes from, take some bad with the good, just like everyone else. And Lucia will be 100% Lucia, Mexican and Kentuckian and Italian and whatever other bits and pieces of identity get thrown into the mix. Perhaps the most important thing is just to instill in her that her identity is perfect and right just how it is, no matter how different from everyone else’s around her. I hope that she can learn to appreciate all the parts of herself, without having to put anyone else’s identity down, still knowing that everyone else’s culture and identity is just as unique and wonderful as hers, in their own way. If we can pull that off, then I can deal with not sharing Halloween with her. After all, parenting is always an exercise in compromise.

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This Animal Once Had a Head… And, there it is!

26 Oct

You know you’ve been living in a “developing” country for a while when you see an article titled “Hand-washing Dos and Don’ts” and you assume it’s going to give you tips on washing clothes by hand instead of discussing hand hygiene. Or when you can haggle over prices and only feel slightly embarrassed instead of too mortified to even try. Or when riding your bike through the mud is an regular occurrence (during rainy season) and not an extreme sport. Or when things like a car radio become complete and utter luxuries, things that are so far down on your list of things to buy “someday when we have the money” that you cease to even dream about them. Or when it’s no longer strange to see entire families on a motorcycle. 

But the biggest sign that I am no longer new to southern Mexico is, of course, food-related. Specifically, this long-time vegetarian has a very different relationship to animal products. Granted, I have always been a vegetarian that ate meat while traveling in a different country, because a) I want to try everything, and b) people often offer you, the visitor, fabulous hospitality which may include animal flesh of some kind, and I really don’t like to snub my nose at such niceness unless it’s absolutely necessary. So in Chile I ate beef empanadas and completos (hot dogs, really, with avocado and mayonnaise and other such Chilean-style dressings- only while drunk). In Italy I probably ate my weight in salami (which was one of my favorite meats from childhood anyway) and proscuitto. In Ireland I tried black and white pudding (NOT a sweet treat- it’s blood sausage!), among other things that can be eaten with or without potatoes. In Argentina I ate milanesa galore (totally not exotic- just breaded meat). When I visited Mexico before moving here, I got invited to try turtle stew and turtle eggs (the eggs were good, the stew was a texture I wasn’t thrilled about). A couple days later, I was horrified to find out that what I had eaten was a protected species in the area. But such are the adventures of a traveling vegetarian willing to try anything.

Living here is a bit different. We mostly eat at home, and what I cook hasn’t really changed. Most days of the week my diet is full of fruits and vegetables and eggs and grains and a little dairy. Conan occasionally buys and cooks some kind of meat, some of which I’ll eat bits of and other things I don’t. There are all kinds of “weird” not-vegetarian things I have learned to adore, like chicatanas (a kind of fly-ish insect that you make a sauce from). There are other things that I still haven’t convinced myself to try (like chapulines, these grasshopper-like things they sell lots in Oaxaca City- my friend Corrina swears she was burping “spicy grasshoppers” for days afterwards). 

We do eat some meat on a semi-regular basis. Every once in a while someone gives us a live chicken, for example, or Paulina kills one of her chickens, and I’ll eat the hell out of that (especially if there’s mole sauce involved). That said, I haven’t yet learned how to kill one and clean it yet (or really to cook it, for that matter). Someone else always ends up doing it for us. It was on my list of things to learn this year but I have yet to accomplish it. Maybe for Christmas. I am a chicken connoisseur now, however, in that I can pretty quickly tell the difference in taste and texture between  pollo de rancho and  pollo de granja (de rancho is a chicken from someone’s back yard, that’s been eating worms and table scraps, and de granja is mass-produced and are always fattier, for one thing).

I have learned how to cook fresh fish, though. And you know we’re not in the U.S. because we cook it and serve it complete; head, tail, eyes and all (you do take out the insides first). And it’s funny because it doesn’t gross me out in the slightest. I don’t think it even did at first. Maybe it’s the result of years of preparation, from my mother telling me stories about her childhood visit to Mexico, being served a fish with the eye staring up at her. Or maybe it’s just that I suppose if you’re going to eat an animal, you might as well admit that it’s an animal. So there I am, picking the last bits of meat from the head, leaving the bones like a cartoon version of what the cat pulls from the trash (pretty much the only time we see all the fish bones in Louisville, Kentucky- on cartoons). Most often the fish I’m eating has been pulled from the ocean that morning by Conan’s uncle, and every last bit of it is delicious. 

Conan eating the whole fish! Can't find my picture of the whole fish I cooked recently : (

Conan eating the whole fish! Can’t find my picture of the whole fish I cooked recently : (

I reassessed my vegetarian-inclined limits again the other day when we went to Conan’s friend’s house for brunch. His friend is a butcher and told Conan he’d be killing a pig that day. For better or for worse, I didn’t eat before leaving our house, banking on the fact that if nothing else I could eat tortillas. We went out back to his open-air “workshop,” where the pig’s head, along with other parts, were still hanging from meathooks. “Yep, definitely pork meat on the table” I confirmed to myself.

We hung out and talked as he continued to prepare the meat. Much of the ribs and other choice cuts, which he’d already finished preparing, would go to a near-by restaurant where Conan and I eat sometimes. As we chatted, he was chopping the skin and other leftover pieces into chunks to fry, a food called buces (maybe kind of like pork rinds, but fresh and thicker? I don’t think I’ve ever had pork rinds, so I can’t be sure). We were going to eat the buces for brunch, so I pretty much resigned myself to tortillas then, since I’d had buces before and the texture does nothing for my appetite. But the company was good and Lucia was in seventh heaven with their super docile chihuahua, who was happy to be picked up and rather roughly handled by my kiddo for long periods of time.

fresh pork meat

fresh pork meat

Conan’s friend was telling us that he doesn’t normally make buces, that usually those parts he uses to make lard. So it was like a special treat that we were having buces. I thought again about perspective being everything in life. But then, when the buces were pulled out of the fryer, he set aside some parts that were mostly meat, which Lucia and I tried. And we both liked it! So as it turned out we had tortillas and avocado and some pork, not to mention a successful visit where I didn’t have to feel awkward and embarrassed about refusing someone’s food.

the giant vat of oil for buces and lard

the giant vat of oil for buces and lard

buces- the finished product

buces- the finished product

Not only that, but I surprised myself by how not-grossed-out I was in the whole situation. I think it actually may help me eat meat when I am seeing where it comes from. I even cooked the chorizo he gave us and ate some of it myself (which, really, is easy to eat because it’s loaded with garlic and chile guajillo, yum). Granted, I’m still never exactly excited about the meat hanging on racks in the market, or the ladies constantly waving the flies away from their grilled salty fish. I have zero plans to try and incorporate more meat into my diet, because I don’t think it’s necessary, really. I like the relationship I have now with animal flesh, in which it’s something special and not everyday, certainly not for every meal. I like that I can look forward to freshly-killed-chicken tamales for Day of the Dead next week. I like that I can eat some fresh chorizo every once in a blue moon and not worry about all the grease and my cholesterol or whatever, because it’s only every once in a while. I like that we spend less money by not buying meat. I like that we use less resources by not consuming much meat. And even though there are some animal parts that you’ll never talk me into liking (such as chicken feet and cow feet, but which I have tried, thank you), I still like that all the animal gets used here, that there is constant acknowledgment of what this is and where it’s come from.

So while some perspective changes are kind of sad, while I’d prefer to still be driving down the road screaming along with some Sleater-Kinney or Against Me, while I wish I never, ever had to think about washing any clothes by hand, other perspective changes are pretty cool. I guess I gotta take the good with the bad, eyeballs staring back and all!

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The Tropical Paradise Version of Snow-Days

19 Oct

We don’t get a whole lot of rainfall around here, which is good since it is practically a state of emergency every time it rains. It’s kind of like in my hometown, where just the threat of snow is often enough to cancel school, despite the fact that it usually snows a few times every year. We know it’s coming, we know it’s that time of year, yet still we act like it is some outrageous event. Here, even without cancelled classes, you’ve gotta appreciate a rainy day as if it were a holiday, because who knows when the next one will be.

During the rainy season here (late May through the end of October, peaking in September), it mostly rains for short periods in the evening or at night, and we might go up to a week or two between showers. I think it only rained once or twice the whole month of July this year. It certainly doesn’t rain every day, or usually for very long periods, unless we’re getting the effects of a nearby hurricane.

The rain is usually like a nice summer rain, cooling things down a little but not making it cold, just turning down the humidity for at least an hour or two. I like it best when it rains in the late evening, turning down the heat and making soothing sounds for bedtime. I have to admit, though, that with as little rain as we get, any time it rains is kind of okay. Despite being the vitamin D lover that I am, here in the land of 350ish days of sunshine, even I can appreciate a nice cloudy day, too.

An overcast day, view from my back door

An overcast day, view from my back door

But the rain, when it’s not while everyone’s sleeping, is totally inconvenient and often a bit chaotic. Streets that are paved don’t have any real drainage system, so there are huge puddling problems and flash flooding in many areas. Dirt roads can also get ugly, like on one of the streets near our house where even big trucks get stuck in the mud when it rains hard. Our other exit route is a little bit safer, although for one block half of the street has a line where the wet ground sinks down below the rocks, making a mini-creek while the rain is pouring down. Luckily it’s small enough to avoid as long as you know it’s there. It causes a big puddle at the bottom of the hill, but nothing we haven’t been able to pass so far.

Imagine the mini waterfall when it rains, on the road near my house

Imagine the mini waterfall when it rains, on the road near my house

If you have a car, the rain’s not so bad, except that the already erratic driving of the general public is worse. Many people go at a snail’s pace, even in spots where the road is just fine. Other folks are speeding, but all over the road, avoiding large puddles. People are still out on their motorcycles (for lack of other transport), although their ability to see the road is reduced thanks to the rain in their eyes, and your ability to see them is lessoned as well.

If you don’t have a car when it’s raining and you have to go out, there’s a totally different set of problems. Everyone and their mom will be trying to take a taxi, so you may or may not get one. Even if you find a free taxi, they are likely to charge you extra (up to double, some bastards), taking advantage of the rain. If you’re walking, you either need rain boots, or you just wear sandals and plan to have wet and muddy feet until you get home (and trust me, wet feet in sandals get dryer and are more comfortable than wet feet in tennis shoes all afternoon). Of course public transport is running rain or shine, but you still have to walk a bit to get to where you are going, most of the time. And some routes change a bit for the rain; for example the bus that goes closest to our house stops where the pavement ends, instead of just a block from our house, which is a four block difference.

And all of us, even though we know that sometimes the rain lets loose suddenly, are guilty of walking around totally unprepared. Several times now I’ve had both of my rain ponchos in the office at work and there’s an afternoon storm while I’m home on lunch break. Or vice versa, I’m at work and I’ve left all relevant gear at home. Alas. So there I am like everybody else, looking surprised and betrayed by the actual presence of rain during the rainy season.

This weekend there was a tropical storm (the light version of a hurricane) that hit along the coast of Oaxaca and Guerrero- not too far from us, but not too close, either, thank goodness. We got two days and two nights of nearly constant rain, ranging from a drizzle to a heavy downpour. And it was actually chilly for the entire two days! Lucia and I wore pants with gusto, stockings and boots, and even a hoody! It was kind of fun to come home from work at 1:30 in the afternoon and not be sweating. On Friday, lunch break felt like a real break; Conan had made vegetable soup, the perfect fix for the weather. We watched a kid movie that Lucia had picked out and ate popcorn (the real kind, popped on the stove, of course), the three of us cuddled up in the bed, cozy and dry while it poured outside. When I got home that night (nice and dry, thanks to having my rain gear and Conan picking me up in the car at the edge of campus), it was still rainy and getting even chillier. We made hot chocolate and ate muffins that Conan and Lucia had picked up in the afternoon. Lucia got to wear some PJs she hadn’t seen in months, whole-body ones with a cat that she screamed “cute” about when she saw it. Conan and I got to cuddle up under a blanket, the rain lulling us all to a peaceful sleep. I declared it a holiday, hands-down.

I told my mom recently that I really enjoy the rain, and luckily she wasn’t eating anything in that moment or she would’ve choked to death from shock. “You like the rain? And clouds? Did you just say that? Since when?” And it’s true, I haven’t been particularly positive about gray, dreary, bleak, cold weather. Not when I was living in Ireland, the land that only looks green and lovely in photos because mostly they catch it in the 10 minutes per day of sunshine. Not in November in Kentucky, a month full of gray day after gray day. Certainly not in Juquila, where there are 6 months of being trapped inside. But here, where gray is an anomaly, where slipping into jeans or boots is typically a sacrifice for style, where sunblock is a way of life, where a nice mug of hot tea is rarely enjoyable, rain is kind of amazing. Yes, it catches us unawares and we may curse it’s inconvenience, but you can’t live in paradise all the time, and even its dreariness is a nice change of pace. Perspective truly is everything, and every rainy day moment can be like a snow-day holiday if you take it with the right attitude, and maybe some Mexican hot chocolate.

Ode to my Mercado, City Center of my Heart

12 Oct

I adore el mercado, the market. I love that it’s our unofficial city center, even though here in Puerto Escondido it’s not where the plaza is, not where the government buildings are, not where the cathedral is. Our town’s important structures are scattered, not centered in one central plaza, defying Spanish colonization’s mandates about the heart and soul of the place. No, around here the heart of our town is far from the church and the government, right in the chaos and raging colors of the mercado.

I love that the market encompasses an entire block, and is the landmark for everything in like a mile radius around it. I love it’s vibrancy and the madhouse variety of things you can buy within it. You can buy hammocks, mosquito netting, clothing, shoes, cleaning supplies, errand bags, birthday candles, toys, plastic tupperware, floats and beach balls, tacky souvenirs, and much more.

Mosey down the row of fresh flowers for a break from the onslaught of recently killed meat that’s hanging out in your face (try passing that with morning sickness- whew!) You can eat at a multitude of budget-priced comedores (dining areas which in this case are all close together in rows, each its own restaurant but mostly offering such similar food and the seating so limited it might as well be all one restaurant). You can get fresh juice and smoothies at many stands (Lucia and I love “vampire” juice- beet and carrot and oranges, yum). You can go down the row that’s half full of tamales and half uncooked local or wild food (like squash blossoms and chile tusta and verdulagas). There are plentiful herbs everywhere for cheap, including basil, although people here think it’s totally bizarre to eat basil, since they use it to cleanse people of negative energy or to attract customers to their business.

Most often we go there for the several rows of produce stalls. Of course, there’s no refrigeration, no sudden “showers” washing it off every half hour. Some produce is fresher than others, of course. There are two days a week when huge deliveries come in from Oaxaca City (which is really stuff that’s grown in various parts of Mexico and beyond), so those two days are prime pickings. Inside these areas of the market you might suddenly one day come across brussel sprouts, okra or snap peas, none of which qualify as a normal find around here. You can always get ginger and eggplant and a few other things that never seem to appear in the typical Oaxacan diet, but must get used somehow because they seem in-demand enough. And of course all the staples are at every stall, year-round- tomatoes, onion, jalepeño, etc. 

Even more fun than the normal stalls are the folks that post up along the back row, behind the meat and fish and cheese and chickens rows, on Saturday and Sunday mornings. I wouldn’t call it a farmers’ market because some of what they’re selling is still just imported from who-knows-where. But there are always several folks (especially little old ladies and children, mothers with babies at the breast) who are indeed selling stuff from their land at really good prices. There are six year olds who put U.S. teens to shame with their rapid ability to make correct change. And their food is fresh and free from chemicals. This is where I buy my jicama and sweet potato, red bananas, limes, baby onions that don’t quite qualify as spring onions, and all kinds of other deliciousness.

Misperos, the newest fruit I've tried from the back row Saturday market (delicious! a little like peaches but no fuzz, big seeds inside)

Misperos, the newest fruit I’ve tried from the back row Saturday market (delicious! a little like peaches but no fuzz, big seeds inside)

And if you are bringing the kids, not to worry because there’s a playground attached to the market. If you want to splurge you can buy a popsicle or an ice cream from one of the seemingly hundreds of vendors pushing their little cart around. You can people watch, which in itself could be an all-day adventure. You can run up and down the ramps that go from one section to another- an extra exciting fun time if you’re a two year old, particularly. Or find a fallen lime and you can have a mini soccer game. The market is anything but boring.

Lucia on the swings at the market

Lucia on the swings at the market

And if that weren’t enough right there, I love that there are a ton of other vendors right outside the market’s walls, selling fruits and vegetables and fish and other random wares, usually for cheaper than inside the market, every day of the week. Some are selling giant watermelons from their truck for 10 pesos each (less than a dollar, folks). Or selling papaya from a wheelbarrow. Or they’ve got a bicycle cart full of coconuts. There’s folks just standing around or sitting on the ground selling hammocks or nopales or matches or whatever. On all the streets surrounding the market, you can buy food for cooking, ready-to-consume snacks and drinks (including the fresh cut coconut for 1/3 of the price you pay on the beach), clothing, and more, right there outside. It’s like the market just keeps on expanding, chaotically and beautifully, all around, making the heart of my town bigger and bigger, making my love of this town grow along with it.

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