We were supposed to go to Juquila for Day of the Dead, but the baby got dengue instead. Granted, the odds were already stacked against us because our car broke down two weeks ago and still isn’t fixed. Welcome to Oaxaca, land of twists and turns and surprises, where the only thing you can count on is the unpredictability of it all.

My little pumpkin suffering his first mosquito-bourne illness. Watching your kid suffer is nooooo fun.

If this were me three years ago, I’d be anxiously shoveling sweet bread into my mouth, wringing my hands and longing wistfully for the days when I could have a drink and smoke a cigarette to make it all better. Nowadays, though, it mostly reminds me of that Chinese parable about what’s “good” and “bad”- see here for a version of this: http://simplyblessed.heartsdeesire.com/2009/10/26/who-knows-whats-good-whats-bad/). Don’t get me wrong- I was still bummed on Friday, when we were scheduled to be packing for Juquila and instead I was consoling the baby with cuddles and pacifier-style nursing and Conan was off fighting the good fight with mechanics. We were 90% sure we weren’t going to make it to Juquila.

I had been really looking forward to our trip, because I love celebrating Day of the Dead. I cherish the idea that our loved ones come to visit. I love that there’s a special day to honor and appreciate family who have passed away- and that it’s a joyous occasion, not a sad one. (you can see my first post on the holiday here: https://exiletomexico.wordpress.com/2012/12/03/a-visit-from-the-dead-multi-cultural-style/) This year in particular, I was desperately needing the time to celebrate and commune with my dad, who just passed in April. Conan’s favorite uncle passed in July, so it’s an important year for him as well. And for Paulina, this is always her big, important family holiday. It was important to her that we be there. Plus, when we visit Juquila, I am pretty much on vacation; I don’t have to do much cooking or cleaning or even quite as much parenting. I always get some me-time, and I figured that was the only way I’d get time to “talk to” and reflect about my dad.

Conan made a stellar effort to get the car fixed, wasting his entire day on Saturday going back and forth and waiting around for the electrical mechanic. Like I said, we’d already been 2 weeks carless. Our car had started making a weird noise 2 weeks before, and when it turned out to be something that required taking the engine out to fix, our mechanic suggested we bite the bullet and go ahead and do some much-needed engine repair work. It took him over a week, because there were some complicated procedures, AND he is the slowest mechanic I’ve ever met. But he’s cheap and he agreed to our payment plan, and supposedly he knew what he was doing on this one.

Really, though, here in Puerto, there aren’t good mechanics. There are especially no good mechanics for our (foolishly purchased) automatic, made-in-the-USA car. Plus, mechanics and electrical mechanics are completely separate jobs, so sometimes you need two different people to fix your car, or you don’t know which kind of problem it is, so you double the money and the time it takes to fix your transportation. Then they come and tell you, “It’s this piece,” and you have to go out and buy the piece. Half the time they’re wrong; I can’t tell you how many times we’ve replaced something that was not broken. And that’s when the mechanic actually shows up, which is iffy even when they promise that they will.

“Our” mechanic (who often doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing and is slower than molasses in January- but did I mention that he’s cheap? And more reliable than most?) had had our car for 10 days when he finally finished. And then the car wouldn’t start. “I knew it! He put it back together wrong, didn’t he?” I asked Conan, but with zero satisfaction in having been right in my dismal prediction. About 6 different electrical mechanics were called in, but only 3 of them went to see the car. None of them knew what was wrong (business as usual down here). On Saturday, the best electrico we know was supposed to go see the car at 8:30 AM. So Conan sat around at the mechanic’s house (where our car is parked) all morning. Eight thirty turned out to mean 11:30. Then there was lots more waiting and back and forth until finally Conan had wasted his entire day only to be told that it’s a mechanical not an electrical problem- something that our mechanic, who’s now out of town until Monday, will have to fix. Welcome to Oaxaca, pues.

We almost went to Juquila anyway, discussing different possible people who could give us rides, and the pros and cons of public transport. But Khalil kept on with his fever and his pain symptoms. I suspected, but until Saturday afternoon we hadn’t yet confirmed, that his problem was dengue (well, I was guessing that or Chikungunya). I knew my poor 7 month old had had a fever since Wednesday evening and was in a lot of pain. He didn’t want to crawl. He wasn’t even trying to break dishes (aka grab everything out of my hand and throw it on the floor)! He was whining and crying and lethargic like I’d never seen my happy little baby. A few days before, we’d had a babysitter out and she’d sat in the doorway to let Lucia play outside, opening up our mosquito-netted little haven of a house to all the insects. It’s our fault- we’d neglected to tell her to put repellant on the kids before going outside, and to keep the door closed at all costs. Lucia got about 6 mosquito bites which instantly turned into giant, itchy red welts on her body. Khalil didn’t have any obvious bites, but “just because his skin doesn’t react like Lucia’s doesn’t mean he’s immune to mosquitos,” I told Conan. And here’s the sad proof. Once again, with zero satisfaction in being right.

But here’s the thing: I’m neither bluesed out nor anxious about these turns of events right now. I’m thrilled to know for sure what’s wrong with my baby. For one, this is by far NOT the worst thing he could contract. It’s kinda like when Lucia was 5 months old and got chicken pox. I was in a panic about it because she’s just a little baby, but it turned out to be the mildest case of chicken pox in history, and essentially didn’t bother her at all. That’s not exactly the case with Khalil; he’s definitely suffering. But the good news is he has a “good” case of dengue. It’s not the type that causes hemorrhage AND his platelet count is so high that it’s extremely unlikely that it could become the dangerous type. By the time we found out, he was already on day 3, so the absolute worst of it had passed. And we know how to treat it- keeping his fever down with paracetamol, keeping him rested and hydrated and comfortable. (It’s times like these when I am more than happy- grateful, even- to be a human pacifier! Before you know it they’re too big for that little, easy comfort.) Additionally, we have the best pediatrician ever (finally, lucking out on a service here in Puerto Escondido!), so if anything else goes wrong or anything gets worse, we will get it taken care of. What more can you ask for, really?

And while it stinks that we’re not with more of the family in Juquila, it’s also nice that we get to stay home. I am just pretending that I’m out of town. Sure, I have to cook, because we have to eat, but I enjoy cooking, and I’m making all kinds of special yummies to celebrate. I’m not doing extra chores. I’m enjoying time with my family and making my own celebration of my loved ones. Some of Conan’s family here in Puerto came to visit us, too. We’re definitely making the best of it! I don’t have the correct type of wooden utensil to make good hot chocolate, but Lucia helped me stir it, and we enjoyed it just the two of us, curled up with books and the sound and smell of rare, precious rain outside. It was perfect. I don’t have the “right” kind of flowers for my altar, nor all the “right” kinds of food. We don’t have a picture of Conan’s abuelita. But it’s still our tribute to our folks, our invitation to our gente, our people, to come visit. Our reminder to ourselves that they’re not lost to us. I don’t have to be in Juquila for that. It’s perfect just like it is. And I enjoyed it with the family, and still found alone time to be with my Dad and my Nonna. Life is so good sometimes. And death is not the end!

This is what everyone uses to stir the chocolate into the milk. I don’t yet own one of these. Maybe next year.

The plot will always thicken here. There’s always something unforeseen, or something foreseen that’s just not what you hoped for. It still gets me down sometimes. I was pretty upset and overwhelmed for portions of this week. But that’s normal when your baby has dengue and your car’s busted, right? But I’m getting better at finally learning how to roll with the punches. To accept that I don’t control anything. To let up a little on my plans and my lists (but no, I’m not giving up on them, thank you very much- plans and hopes are still necessary and beloved!). And to teach my children that no matter what happens, we can adapt. It’s not always here nor there, just different. So bring on the plot twists. Goodness knows I never wanted to have a boring life!

Conan and Lucia make a flower trail to show the way to the ofrenda.

Our first Palacios-Satterlee altar. Death is not the end! La muerte no es el final! Hot chocolate, coffee, and bourbon, oh my! Mole and pasta, too. Our dead folks surely enjoyed it.  

That giant hurricane that hit land here in Mexico this weekend started forming just below us earlier this week. It soon became apparent that it would pass us by, and the clouds overhead disappeared along with our chances of dealing with a tropical storm. “There goes our last chance for rain,” some of my (cooler-weather-loving) coworkers lamented. “Back to the stifling heat!” My favorite rain-lover grouched. Meanwhile, I was doing happy sunshine dances, ecstatically grateful that a) I didn’t have to face a tropical storm this week (before I even knew it was going to be a monster hurricane) and b) it didn’t even do more than drizzle on my way to and from work, which I was extra relieved about because our car is busted and I’d have no ride to work in the rain. It was a very happy week for me. But then, I’ve mostly been happy lately anyway, so what can I say.

If you know me, you know that I am a critical person. I might have been born with one raised eyebrow. I was a rebellious teenager that still needs to QUESTION EVERYTHING. I’m sensitive and empathetic and therefore intent on social justice and changing the system. But that doesn’t mean I have to be pissed off all the time.

“You sound like you’re in a great mood,” my mom said when she called this week. “What’s up?” As I started telling her about stuff going on in my week, I realized that the bad stuff was pretty heavy bad stuff. But we have electricity! I was listening to music! And our car breaking down meant going on a bike ride for our errands, something I rarely get to do anymore since I can’t take the kids on the bike. And my three year old is thoughtful and caring and smart and funny. And my baby is driving me crazy because he’s bursting with so much movement I can’t contain him long enough to change his diaper, which is good because that’s exactly how he’s supposed to be right now. And I’ve discovered a whole new world of recipes for oatmeal that you make in the refrigerator overnight! And I’m getting an inspiring and moving piece of artwork from Louisville for my early Christmas! It’s hot and sunny! I love my house, even though it’s eternally messy. I love my life, even though there’s always something going wrong. Might as well be joyous.

For a long time I’ve been confused about the difference between feeling happy and being complacent. I think I thought- at least internally, if not out loud- that this whole glass-half-full idea was just an excuse to not do anything differently. That by looking for the good stuff you’re ignoring the bad stuff, which we can’t ignore if we want everyone to have good stuff. I think I kinda thought Pollyanna was like this Rainbow Brite / Orphan Annie-type cartoon character with constantly pointy pigtails- another shallow Disney thing, another be-grateful-for-whatever-the-system-deigns-to-give-you character being sold to us.

But Pollyanna was actually a character from a book, and she was inspired to look for the positive because she liked people and wanted everyone to be well- not just to feel happy (thanks again, Mom, for making me read). She tried to make a difference in people’s lives. She didn’t just walk around singing about rainbows and sunshine all the time. Reading Pollyanna didn’t change my life; there were lots of other things going on with me already that have been changing my life. But it did help me quit thinking that “happy people” are shallow, and that happiness (and optimism) is something innate, or something you either are or aren’t. It’s a practice. It’s something you have to do, not something you magically are, and it’s not eternal, either.

Lately my gratitude practice is overflowing, seemingly of its own accord. Instead of struggling to find 3 little things to be grateful for everyday, somedays I find myself scribbling whole paragraphs in my notebook. It’s taken a long time to get here. Like doing endurance exercise or strengthening your muscles, feeling real gratitude is sometimes a struggle, but one that gets easier. It’s become just as important to me as exercise, too- something I desire to have a good day, to feel good.

I still want to change the world, and I still want to change some things in my life. I don’t think I’m content and complacent, by any stretch. I still feel sad, frustrated, and angry on a regular basis, too- which is fine. They’re just feelings. Conan thinks I’m focusing on the negative every time I voice a complaint or ball up my fists and make ridiculous caveman grunting noises (yes I really do this). Every time I get bummed out or overwhelmed by the struggles (be it our personal life struggles or bigger things like government inaction on climate change), Conan thinks I’m letting the bastards get me down. But they’re just feelings. They come and go, and for me they can go faster if I can safely voice them first. I’m still dramatic sometimes, because, geez, I feel things really f****ing intensely sometimes. But that’s not all bad either! It also means I feel so much joy that I could explode with it, on a regular basis. Which is pretty damn cool, thank you very much.

These days, I don’t think happiness and complacency do actually go hand in hand. I think, in fact, the more you encourage yourself to feel good about life, to find the good, to feel gratitude, the more you want to share the goodness. The crappier you feel, the more bogged-down, too-many-problems-to-even-get-started you feel, the harder it is to make a difference in the universe. Optimism isn’t hedonism. Gratitude is certainly not complacency.

Looking for and relishing the positive aspects of what life gives you does not mean you accept life and society exactly how it is- it doesn’t mean giving into the system, or accepting abuse, or tolerating degradations just because. Relishing the positive just makes you less of a grouch. You can be a critical thinker without criticizing everything. Not that I had a raincloud over my head all the time before, nor am I a constant rainbow now, but I certainly feel less overwhelmed with my levels of stress and anxiety lately. Making a practice of noticing my gratitude isn’t some forced/pretend happiness, it’s food for my spirit.

So hopefully I’m not pissing off my grumpy friends with my incessant sunshine, with all my reasons to be glad. But it’s okay if I am, because I feel great! Viva Pollyanna!

Pollyanna’s not happy all the time. She works hard to find a reason to be glad.

I’d already taught several Michael Angelos and Julius Caesars when Marco Polo appeared on my roster. Thanks to that silly tag game kids play in the pool, I pretty much had to bite my tongue to keep from giggling every time I took attendance. At least my Miguel Angels and Julio Cesars mostly go by just Miguel or just Julio, but Marco Polo wanted me to use his first and middle name, the whole Marco Polo shebang. The worst part is that I don’t even think there’s anything wrong with his name- I just can’t help but picture a kid in a pool with his eyes closed calling out Marco! while the other kids flee and yell Polo! (Sometimes it’s a struggle to buck up and act like a grown up at work.)

In case you hadn’t figured it out from the whole people-from-Mexico-named-Jesus* thing, naming your kid after somebody famous is a really popular phenomenon here. If it can be somebody famous and religious, all the better. I’m particularly fond of Maria José for a girl, or José Maria for a boy; I’m impressed by people’s ability to give their kid an opposite sex middle name for the sake of the holy couple.

Also for the sake of the Catholic faith (or maybe a lack of inspiration back when folks had 10 kids), people used to have “calendar names”- they’d name their child whatever saint was designated for that day. People still sometimes say it’s your “saint’s day” instead of your birthday, because every day of the year has a saint for it. And lemme tell you, some of those saint names are kind of awful-sounding. Names like Filemon and Onofre (Sorry if this is your name, dear reader). My mother in law told me that once she complained to her mother that she didn’t like the name Paulina, and her mom told her, “Well, I could have named you Pánfila instead.” Paulina says she learned to like her name after that.

People also love creative and unique names. Granted, there are names that I originally thought were unique, invented names but which are actually traditional indigenous names (like Shunashi, a Zapotec name). Conan’s grandmother was named Godeleva, which sounds harsh to my ears, but I hear she loved it because no one else had her name. Conan’s parents, unfamiliar with all things Irish, thought they were giving their son a unique name, slightly changing the spelling and pronunciation of the biblical place Canaan (stress on the Nan, not the Co). There are names like Inedit, Esdras, Gamaliel. To me, the coolest part about new and unique names is that they’re more or less easy to pronounce, thanks to Spanish being totally phonetic. Sure, Maydelith looks a bit tricky, but once you wrap your head around it, it’s not bad. Because of this, I’m a little bit baffled when people tell us that Khalil is a difficult name. True, it is not a common name around here, but it is completely phonetic- it totally follows Spanish pronunciation of letters. The upside is that people are used to unique names, so nobody makes a big deal out of it once we say it a couple times.

Of course, there are also names borrowed from the U.S., usually with a slightly different pronunciation. Like Edith is pronounced eh-deet, accent on the deet. Conan always giggles about super Mexican-gringo combos like Brittany Guadalupe. I like it when they change the spelling to match the pronunciation, like changing Michael to Maikal.

But is naming your kid Rambo taking it too far with the famous people thing? Are there names that are just a bit too creative? Who gets to decide? I think names are, in part, an intimate part of family life, as well as a reflection and expression of culture. As such, I don’t think anybody has the right to decide what you, the parents, can name your child. Sure, I may giggle about names like Marco Polo for a second because, well, I’m giggly and immature some of the time. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the name, and perhaps in Mexico people learn enough world history to know who he was and not just have a kid’s game named for him.

Furthermore, it’s quite a slippery slope when government intervenes in what people can name their kids. Researching this, for example, I learned that in Germany it’s prohibited to give your kid sex-neutral names.** That seems a bit sad and excessive to me.

But names are also a part of public life, and unfortunately, discrimination based on names exists. While I’m against doing so, part of me understands wanting to restrict some names when it can cause so much grief for a kid, even into adulthood. I mean, it’s one thing if people give you a hard time because you have an indigenous name; that’s ignorance on the part of folks making fun of you or discriminating against you, but at least you’ve got a good name and were named that for a reason. But what if you suffer your whole life for what seems like a needless cause- like getting named Escroto (Scrotum, in English- and yes this is a registered name in Oaxaca). Is there any potential reason for that to be your name, besides parental cruelty?

During Conan’s very brief stint as a schoolteacher, he had a student named Cesarea, which is the word for a C-section. Conan has always wondered, did the doctor tell them, “well, it’s gonna be a Cesarean,” and the family understood that as the doctor deciding her name? Was it just an attempt to make a female version of Cesar? What are parents thinking when they name their kid Facebook or Hitler? I almost died laughing at this list of prohibited names in the Mexican state of Sonora: http://www.latintimes.com/baby-names-banned-mexico-facebook-harry-potter-terminator-make-list-prohibited-names-sonora-153487. (Cesarea made the list.) Then I realized that most, if not all of these, were on this list because someone named their kid that. Circuncisión (Circumcision), for example. Terminator. It’s worth clicking on. But there are some on the list whose prohibition I don’t get. Harry Potter? I mean, at least he’s a cool character from a really awesome series of books. What wrong with that? And Cheyenne? That’s a beautiful name. So we’re back to the slippery slope situation.

In Oaxaca, they’ve decided not to ban names. Instead, the folks at the Civil Registry are supposed to “counsel” parents when they come in to register their kids. If it seems to be an odd name, they ask what it means to the parents or why they want to name their kid that. Maybe it’s a good enough compromise. Meanwhile, I’m two weeks in to a new academic semester and I’ve learned the names of all 90 of my students, AND managed to act like a grown up and not giggle once- well, not about anybody’s name. Go me!

*Jesus is pronounced more like hey-zeus than anything, which also makes me giggle occasionally, because apparently I am secretly still about 8 years old in maturity / humor. Also, people named Jesus mostly get the nickname Chuy (pronounced like Chewy) or Chucho (choo-choh, like a chu chu train except oh on the second syllable. FYI.

**from this article- an interesting read http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/04/24/banned-baby-names_n_5134075.html

Exclusive! Find out if you really ARE a parent of one or more mini-humans!

Do any of these describe your reality?

-Someone vomits on you and yet you find yourself comforting and calming the perpetrator, plus doing all the clean-up, instead of receiving any kind of apology or compensation.

-You get up to turn on the coffeemaker. You return to bed for ten more minutes of glorious shut-eye while you await your black gold being processed by the magic that is electricity. But lo and behold, you discover that there is no longer enough space in your bed to lie down and stretch your legs out. The two smallest humans in your house have maneuvered themselves into taking up three fourths of the king sized bed. “How did this happen?” You ask yourself. “I never wanted to be a bed-sharer in the first place! When do I get to cuddle with my partner, who’s huddled on the opposite side of the bed, a thrashing three year old between us?! When do we get to take advantage of having a king size bed?!?!” You finish your silent freak out and resign yourself. At least you still have coffee.

Mastering geometry early on- how to be this little and take up maximum space in the bed

-You’re pissed off at your pet for chewing up the baby’s favorite chew toy. You think about letting the baby have it back, but decide against it due to the bits of loose rubber that are now choking hazards from the cat chewing holes in it. Drat that cat!

-You start getting up at some ungodly hour of the morning- even on weekends- just to have A FEW LOUSY MINUTES to yourself. Your mother, upon hearing what time you now voluntarily get yourself out of bed in the mornings, almost goes into cardiac arrest. You assure her that you are indeed the same child who invented a million tricks to avoid that early rising nonsense, including falling back asleep standing up in the shower. She then proceeds to laugh maniacally, because, “payback’s a mother.”

-You regularly get screamed at and ordered around by total tyrants, and yet no one encourages you to flee from the dictatorship. “Mommy, you come here now!” my three year old just told me today, as I was supposed to be swinging her in the hammock for nap time. “You don’t get your water! I want you to be thirsty!” Help! I have children! Somebody call Adult Protective Services!

-You find yourself talking on the phone to someone and interrupting your conversation to say things like, “Go to the bathroom if you have to pick your nose! And wash your hands afterwards!” Or “Do we color on walls?” Or a panicky “No no no no not the cat litter!”

-Your kid has learned the basics of menstruation years before her time and can’t wait to grow up and shave her legs because NO ONE RESPECTS YOUR PRIVACY!

-Poop becomes the biggest point of contention between you and your partner- whose turn it is to wipe the bigger kid’s butt, whose turn to change a diaper, whose turn to prewash the clumps of half-digested beans out of the cloth diaper, etc. Then you’re not sure if it’s worse to have to fight about poop all the time or to have such a hands-on relationship with little people’s poop.

-You’re at work, thinking you’re in adult mode, when suddenly you realize you’re humming a song from Dora the Explorer! Aaaahhhhh! Will it never end?

-You continue your masochism, even asking for more of this madness. You go home to your kids every night after work, and you’re happy to see them- perhaps overjoyed, even, to return to their tyranny after a long hard day in the grown up world. The baby smiles at you and flaps his arms (is it gas or is he happy to see you?). The big sister runs to the door, yelling, “Mommy! It’s Mommy! Mommy’s home!” And all is forgiven. Sure, you miss those pre-kid things like privacy and space in the bed, but you keep refusing to trade it for your little monsters.

You have passed this quiz. If one or more of these points describe your life, you’re definitely a parent of small children. Keep fighting the good fight, folks! I’ve been told it doesn’t last forever.

Living in Juquila (pronounced who-keel-uh, kinda like who killed ya), a small mountain town known only for an appearance of the Virgin Mary, was like growing a tumor in my spirit. While I don’t / can’t blame all of my relationship and personal problems on Juquila, I still have lingering trauma, drama, and bitterness from my year of living there. Thank goodness it was only a year or it would’ve surely turned into terminal cancer of the soul.  It’s not an altogether awful place, but it was a terribly toxic place for me.

view from outside Paulina’s house in the morning sunshine

I have to say, Conan’s family has always been great to me, and great people to boot. Really there are a lot of lovely, wonderful folks that live there. They were just all too busy and / or too reserved to have any meaningful contact with me. The culture as a whole of this one small town (not of the state in general, and certainly not of the whole country, mind you), with its general lack of intellectual or creative stimulation and its extreme sexism, truly was like a carcinogen to me.

Sound exaggerated? You go live there for a year and get back to me.  But living in Juquila was good for me for two reasons. For one, I can enjoy all the good parts when I go to visit, taking comfort in the fact that I don’t live there! I can eat the best tlayudas in the state, eat the best hamburgers in the world (Epig’s epic burgers), let my kids be temporarily spoiled by relatives, see the pretty view from my mother-in-law’s house, and move on with my life. I get to chat with the lovely folks we know who live there, because they make time to chat with us (and mostly include me) when we’re just there for a brief visit.

the beautiful view from Paulina’s backyard- one of the things to appreciate about Juquila

The other great thing about having payed my dues in Juquila is that the tiny coastal town of Puerto Escondido is miraculously, wonderfully, fantastically livable. I’m sure if I had just moved from Louisville, Kentucky, to Puerto Escondido directly I would not appreciate it the way that I do. Puerto would probably feel like purgatory instead of my little paradise.They say comparisons are odious, but for me comparing Juquila and Puerto Escondido is like (solar) radiation therapy to shrink down my tumor. So lemme drink my Juquila haterade for a minute. I can go ahead and get it out of my system, and at the same time, tell you about why Puerto Escondido is my paradise.

I’m pretty sure my friend Xian invented the term haterade, years ago. I’ve been waiting for my chance to use this brilliant word ever since, and here it is!

Food Selection

I almost forget sometimes how great Puerto is for food. I was complaining to my mom one day about the grocery store. There are two supermarkets in Puerto, but the one with the best selection has zero idea of customer service and routinely doesn’t have my favorite items for weeks or months at a time. “Well you should probably move back to Juquila,” my mom told me, deadpan, like she does. Right. The land of zero supermarkets. Where no one’s ever heard of crazy stuff like ginger or the ever-exotic red cabbage. Where salad is lettuce, tomato, onion and avocado, always and forever. Where you can thank the Virgin if there are two options for any product.

In Puerto there’s a health food store, with brown rice and local organic produce. There’s a corner store hangout spot with free wifi and imported products like dark chocolate and Sriracha. There are sit-down restaurants with foreign food like Thai and falafel. I could go on, but really that’s enough. It’s not Louisville, but my inner foodie is mostly satisfied.

Days off work for everyone

It’s so nice to live somewhere again where people mostly close up shop by 7 or 8pm. Where you have to buy machine-made tortillas on Sundays because women are giving themselves somewhat of a break. Where lots of places are closed on Sunday. I know, it seems counter-intuitive (and certainly un-´Merican) to enjoy more limited access to commodities. But when it means our community is more laid-back and less earning-obsessed, I seriously appreciate it. I like that we are in an economic situation where we don’t have to feel like we’re constantly scrambling for a couple extra pesos- where I can just go to work and get my paycheck, and not worry that by relaxing at home on a Sunday I’m losing out on potential income.

People in Juqulia almost all work 7 days a week. Especially people who have a home-based business, taxi drivers, people with their stands in the plaza, self-employed small businesspeople and those they employ- they all work long days, every day. So that covers pretty much everyone in Juquila. It’s not like that in all of Mexico or even all of Oaxaca. Yes, people work more here than in the US, certainly- longer hours in general, and the normal work week for most folks is Monday through Friday and includes a half day on Saturday. But not every town has most of the town working sunup to sundown seven days a week.

It’s a slave-driving kind of work ethic, except instead of slaving for some CEO or rich owner, people mostly enslave themselves. To me it wasn’t any more glamorous than slaving away for “the man.”

When we were living there, we were constantly “on,” too, in Paulina’s store, where we sold cell phones and top-up minutes for cell phones. It’s not that it was hard work by any stretch. It was mostly boring and annoying. Gotta go pee or change a diaper? Wait till someone else can cover for you. You don’t want the general public too see you drink coffee in your PJs (because you have the go through the store to get to the kitchen)? Then you better get up earlier than everyone else. We tried to convince Paulina to close the store on Sundays for a while, so we could have a family day, but I think we only pulled it off once. Inevitably she’d say, “well, I’m not doing anything- might as well open for a while.” The idea of taking off work (unless there’s a party) is a foreign concept in Juquila. Not so in coastal Puerto, where people are hard-working but know how to enjoy a good lounge in the hammock.

Fabulous weather

Okay, so the in-the-80s-and-humid-like-an-alligator-tank-everyday weather of Puerto Escondido isn’t for everyone. But it is the weather for me! It’s Louisville summer all year round! Skirts and tank tops every day of the week! Sunshine approx. 363 days a year! Vitamin D party time!

Juquila lovers hate on Puerto’s weather the second that they arrive- oh the terrible heat! Oh the sun! Oh dear! Where’s a good storm to keep everyone at home or work for 6 months of the year? When’s the windy season? Where are the predictable afternoon clouds? How do you survive here? But for me the constant heat and sun is ideal, especially now that we have fans in our house.

Women exist in social settings

Okay, this is not always the case in Puerto, either. There are still some people who will say hi to Conan and ignore me right beside him. But they’re much more the exception than the rule. Of course there is still rampant, raging sexism that is expressed in a ton of other ways (like everywhere), but pretending that someone doesn’t even exist, completely robbing them of any social worth, isn’t usually one of those ways.

In Puerto, not only do most people acknowledge my existence, but also there is space for women to have a social life. For many women in Puerto (unfortunately, not all women), there are options to do something fun. Because really, part of a complete existence is being a multi-dimensional human being. Not just being a mom, wife, worker. Hanging out! Chatting with your girlfriends (not just for 2 minutes when you’re run into each other running errands)! Going out with other couples and having interactions with men and women together! Playing sports! Doing something else that you enjoy for yourself!

None of those things happen in Juquila, ever- at least not for married women, and not much for single women, either. In Juquila, we went together once to the one night club, and there were about 10 other people, maybe 8 of them men. Conan had been to the club before, because groups of men go out together to drink, and their wives stay home and take care of the kids. When there’s a party or an event in the plaza (like a rodeo, or fireworks, or a band), men might deign to take their partners and children, but you mostly won’t find them interacting much. At a party women do most of the work, while men do the important job of handing out beers and mescal and drinking it with their friends.

As I mentioned, everyone is always working, but somehow men always find time to go out, to drink, to play sports, even to go to football or basketball tournaments in other towns. But the only women who ever play sports in Juquila are the nurses who work in the hospital, who are, not coincidentally, all from other towns. For women from Juquila, it’s not just sports they don’t play. They don’t play anything. They don’t go out without children. There’s really no concept of women doing anything for fun for themselves. It’s so the norm that I couldn’t talk any women into hanging out with me, unless it was to do something useful like make tamales. No one seems to question this, either.* If you question it, you’re destroying men’s maleness, making them less male. Te pegan, men say if their male friend doesn’t want to go out- implying that your wife hits you, that she has assumed the male role of control and violence. That phrase and the way it’s used pretty much sums it all up.

This is the biggest part of what nearly destroyed my spirit. I can live without sushi. I can live with crappy weather. I can’t live without meaningful connections, without real friendship, without social validation through positive interactions for my extroverted self, without acknowledgement of myself as a complete and equal human being. I can’t. Ever again.

But it sure does make me appreciate my little tropical paradise. And thanks, Juquila, for the great visit yesterday. It was actually really fun! And I love to see you guys in Puerto, so come visit anytime!

*My mother-in-law is the only exception to this rule that I know of, in terms of women from Juquila who still live in Juquila and who question this. Perhaps there are other exceptions, I just didn’t meet them or didn’t catch on that they were exceptions. There are also lots of exceptions of people from Juqulia who don’t buy into this- but they almost all now live in other places, or they’re from other places to begin with.

My Nonna, my mother’s mother, had to learn English twice, due to moving back and forth between the States and Italy when she was little. At one point, she got sent home from school daily for not speaking English, and every day after her mother returned her to school anyway, arguing with the nuns who ran the school that she was never going to learn if they kept sending her home!

Perhaps because of this, or perhaps just due to her love of language and expression, my Nonna went on to learn perfect English. She kept her Italian as well and added fluent Spanish later in life, both of which she taught me bits of at different points in my life. But more than the Italian phrases she taught me I remember the ways she would give you a hard time to correct your English grammar errors- things my mom repeated to us, too.

Like if you said “I’m done with my homework” instead of “finished,” she’d say, “You’re done? Dinner gets done! Can I stick a fork in you?”

Or if you asked, “Where is it at?” she’d say, “Behind the at,” because “Where is it?” needs no “at” afterward. Nobody even knows or follows half of these rules that she enforced, but by golly, I learned them, thanks to her and my mom. So I come by it honestly- my need to know the correct way.

But language is an art, not a perfect science, and I love it for that, too. I’m also an English teacher, and I certainly don’t teach perfect English to my students. I teach my students correct English as I know it, sure, but I don’t expect them to get it perfectly all the time (or ever), and I actively encourage them to make mistakes. I want them to try to communicate, to use the language to express themselves, not to sit around worrying about whether have or has goes with the subject the students. Of course I want them to learn the correct thing, but I teach them that it’s better to say, “The students has too much homework” than to say nothing at all.

Despite my encouraging, mistake-loving attitude for language learners, I was still sitting around with another foreign teacher bemoaning the spelling situation here in Mexico. While I don’t expect anyone to spell well in English, I’ve discovered that many Spanish speakers can’t spell well in Spanish. And Spanish, unlike English, is phonetic. The vowels only make one sound. There aren’t 3 ways to pronounce the same consonant-vowel combo. The spelling actually makes sense.

“So, why, oh, why,” I whined, “can whatever teacher who posted that notice on the kindergarten down the street not spell the word please (por favor) correctly?” Why is it that some of my students didn’t write haber correctly on an activity, even when they just had to copy it? How could you so drastically change the word hacer to aser or voy to boi?

If you know Spanish at all, though, you know that these are mistakes because Spanish is phonetic. The h is never pronounced. The v sounds exactly like the b. The s, z, and often c are more or less interchangeable phonetically. So what difference does it make? Boi, if you read it aloud to yourself, sounds exactly the same as the correct word for ‘I go’.

Sort of like it doesn’t really make a difference that people here always use “quotation marks” incorrectly (like I did just now). Like when they write se vende “chorizo”  (“sausage” for sale). Because everyone consistently uses quotation marks to highlight or underline a word (especially in names of stores, too), I am pretty much the only one walking around giggling about their apparently not-real chorizo. So, you know, I guess if everyone’s agreed about the meaning, then it really doesn’t matter whether it’s officially correct or not.

As for my semi-rhetorical “why” in the matter of “why can’t everyone spell this right?” I could speculate on the situation. For one, many people speak Spanish as a second language anyway (speaking another indigenous language as well). Also, I think spelling is not a priority for much of anyone. A lot of people are too busy getting by to have time to give a damn about reading and spelling. I suspect that a lot of spelling correctly is due to seeing the word written correctly time after time. At least for me that’s the case. I’d never make it in a spelling bee because with many words I have to write it down and look at it like I’m reading it to know if it’s correct or not. So reading all the time is one way that many of us learn to spell.

But here, there are a ton of barriers to reading for pleasure. (Dear Cheyenne, I found an appropriate place to talk about books and libraries, finally!) First off, the cost of books is outrageous! Here in my small town, there’s not even a bookstore. Sometimes there are book fairs, where somebody sets up a stand to sell books. But a new book sells for 200 or 300 pesos (about 12-18 US dollars, which is more than lots of people make in two days!) Even used books are much more expensive than you’d find them in the US. And there are libraries, but the couple I’ve been in don’t have much selection and don’t have great lending policies. In one of them you had to leave your ID to borrow a book, which is problematic if you need your ID for anything. In another, they give you a library card, but you only get the book for a week. I’m spoiled rotten by my Louisville library system, where you get a book for 3 weeks and can renew on-line or over the phone.

Even people who do read for pleasure and grew up in the library (like Conan) still frequently change around bs and vs and the like, so I think it just brings me back to the idea that nobody cares about it but me. And why do I care? Despite my training in youth and my personal adoration of grammar as a fun pasttime, I don’t speak or write perfectly in English or Spanish. Furthermore, thanks to international travel, I’m well aware of the plethora of differences in countries and even regions that people are always declaring as rights and wrongs, when really they’re just differences in use. They’re differences that actually make language more fun, more interesting- what makes it alive, and changing all the time. If I can accept that hueá means huevada in Chile, or that vos sos in Paraguay is just as legit as tú eres, that half six in Ireland can actually refer to the time 6:30, then why does it bug me if grasias is spelled with two s?

Yet part of me still cringes when I see it. Part of me wants to cry out that NO! It’s wrong, wrong I tell you! I suspect that this part of me that unconsciously buys into those mean old nuns who sent my Nonna home from school. This is the part of me that needs to know the correct answer so that people don’t treat me like I’m ignorant. But really, not spelling correctly is not what makes people ignorant, and incorrect spelling doesn’t speak at all about people’s character. It’s way more legitimate to write por fabor any which way you please (yay for having manners!) than to treat people poorly based on their usage of language. The real reason I love language is because it is, after all, a tool to be used for expression, not a set of rules to further oppression. So stop me the next time I palm-smack myself over some inconsequential error, and remind me what I tell my students: “Errors are the best!” Let’s all keep learning, folks!