Tag Archives: immigration

No Medicine is the Best Medicine Sometimes

26 Feb

“Oh, she’s the doctor who doesn’t give medication,” our family friend said when she realized who our pediatrician is. It amused me to hear her reputation described as such, but the good news is that it’s true- in all the right ways, anyway! We have a radical, thoughtful, socially-minded doctor for our kids now. This has been revolutionary for our life.

A while back I mentioned in a blog post that my parenting anxiety was more extreme because of not having a doctor that we had trust and confidence in. (You can read about that here: https://exiletomexico.wordpress.com/2015/01/25/just-keep-breathing/  ) But then- ta-dah!- we found our ideal pediatrician, Dr. Anja. And as we recover from another bout of Lucia’s asthma, and bask in a reassuring check-up for Khalil, I thank my lucky stars yet again for her existence in Puerto and for us finding her.

You guys just don’t know how novel it is to have a doctor who has a file on our kids, a doctor who wants to see them for check-ups. I can quit referring to old Facebook posts to check on their previous weight. I can ditch some of my excessive notes from every illness ever- because now their doctor has that info. I can ask questions and get advice on what to expect, what to watch out for, how to keep my kids safe and healthy- information specifically for my child, not generated by parental desperation, academic websites and parenting books! Her information comes from medical school in Germany, residency in New York, experience in a public hospital here in Puerto, plus her own practice here. It is a much, much wider range of experience and education than most doctors around here. (Not to mention her credentials are much, much better than mine; I don’t even have aspirations for being a doctor, guys! I just want to be healthy and informed.)

And that reputation for not giving (useless) medication? Perhaps it’s frustrating for people who believe you always need medicine, but that’s not us. For us, it’s a miracle to find a doctor here in Puerto Escondido that doesn’t want to inject a patient with antibiotics every time they cough. “It’s an infection,” they tell you, as if infection were a synonym for bacterial-problem-requiring-antibiotics. Or else it’s something like, “When they have a fever they do need antibiotics.” Really? So, the flu now requires antibiotics? Mosquito-borne illnesses, too? Give me a break, doctors. Even when they don’t give antibiotics around here, they always give you some kind of medicine to buy. Of course, if you go to one of those doctors that works in a pharmacy (which costs about a tenth of what a non-pharmacy doctor charges), they pretty much have to sell you some kind of medicine. But even when we took Lucia to a different pediatrician, he still prescribed us some symptom-relieving medicine for her virus (which I didn’t give her because he didn’t resolve my questions about it, and because I’m a mean, mean Mommy). But our pediatrician has the same philosophy that I do about medicine: You don’t need medicine that’s not going to help. Revolutionary, right?

Before finding Dr. Anja, we also had the medical establishment* here telling us that my healthy, in-the-normal-weight-range daughter is underweight and malnourished. I think they told us that because Lucia’s tall and thin now, and thus out of the very limited “healthy” range for Body Mass Index here in Mexico. I mean, they were working with limited information, bless their little hearts. They certainly couldn’t check her growth over time, since they didn’t keep files on her. By using those same limited standards, she would have been considered overweight as a baby, and they probably would have advised me to breastfeed her less or some other such insanity. I suppose the plus side of not having well visits for her as a baby here was the lack of opportunity for them to tell me she was too fat.

By the way, I did not resort to violence, thank you, and I didn’t even laugh in their face at the word malnourished applied to my healthy, often voracious eater. Both times I nodded politely and left as quickly as possible, before they could suggest I feed her chips or something to fatten her up. Yes, that is plausible; a doctor told me I needed to eat more sweets because my blood sugar was a bit low during pregnancy. If doctors prescribe candy to pregnant women, then why not chips and donuts to “malnourished” children? Sigh. The saddest thing is that these 2 different doctors didn’t recommend anything at all for Lucia. They told us she’s underweight with no suggestion as to how to remedy the supposed problem (not that I would’ve listened, but that’s beside the point).

But all that is in the past! Now we have our doctor. And did I mention that my kids like going to the doctor now? Lucia’s always excited to go there. “Are we going to my doctor? The one with the toys?” she asks. You guessed it, Dr. Anja has a waiting room with toys and books and puzzles! There are colorful things hanging from her walls. There’s a giant stuffed animal in the exam room that Lucia likes to hold during asthma treatments. Her walls are painted and her space is inviting. As an added bonus, there’s always soap for hand washing available (you can’t say that about every health center, unfortunately). We haven’t been to any other medical place with this kind of kid-friendly (or even just friendly) environment.

dr anja waiting room 1

The waiting room- You wish you had this doctor, too, don’t you?

dr anja waiting room 2

There are even more toys than what you can see in this picture.

Even if she had an ugly, boring office, though, her awesome manner with the kids would still make up for it. The first time we took Lucia there was the first time she wasn’t scared of a doctor. Our doctor knows how to get kids to take a breath before they understand what taking a breath means. She is friendly and talks to them in a respectful way, but on kid-level. She tries to be as noninvasive as possible while doing her job, not making them sit still for more time than they have to, distracting them with toys while she does some things. Of course, I’m sure it also just helps that she’s not trying to give every kid shots of antibiotics every visit.

Dr. Anja explains things to us, the parents, as well. She wants us to understand and be part of our child’s health and care, instead of assuming that we’re completely ignorant about all things health-related and that we need to be protected from ourselves.

She is also trying to reach out and make her adopted community a better place. She now has a bus she uses to take her important services to smaller towns, places where they might never see a pediatrician otherwise. (read more about it here: https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/pediatric-mobile-clinic-in-mexico#/ ) She is also interested in maternal health and promoting more options and information about pregnancy and birth, which is another desperately needed service down here. (What’s that? You guys can sense the future collaboration happening between us? Here’s hoping!)

Being from the U.S., of course it makes me feel at ease knowing that our doctor is familiar with best practices and protocol on an international scale. It’s nice to be able to talk about health issues in my native tongue, too. But it’s not her being foreign and trilingual, or her having experience abroad, that makes her our ideal pediatrician. There are great doctors around here who are from here; for example, my gynecologist is home-grown on the Oaxacan coast, and he’s brilliant and ideal for me, too (someday I’ll write a gushing post about him). Likewise, you can find plenty of doctors in the U.S. who are just as willing as most doctors here to give you antibiotics for your virus. I’m sure Europe also has its share of doctors who think all patients are idiots because they didn’t go to medical school. So it’s definitely not her being foreign. It’s her attitude, her way of doing things, combined with her knowledge, that make her the perfect pediatrician for us.

So amen again for the peace of mind that comes from having a great doctor available. Now we just need to find a good general practitioner for us grown-ups, so the whole family can get sick whenever we want, without the stress of relying on Google and tea to cure us. Meanwhile, y’all who don’t live in Puerto can hope you find your own Dr. Anja. Good luck!

 

*I’m sure there are plenty of good doctors around here. I’m not saying other docs are all awful, but we’ve had some unpleasant consultas, and I am saying that the other doctors that we’ve visited are not a good fit for us. And, okay, I am talking bad about the many, many doctors everywhere who don’t want you to ask questions. They are bad doctors if they don’t want the patient involved in his/her own care, in my humble opinion. For more examples of the madness, you can read about my fight with my insurance company doctor during my pregnancy here: https://exiletomexico.wordpress.com/2015/02/01/me-versus-the-insurance-company-doctors-a-saga/

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The Camote Conundrum

22 Feb

I never really understood the difference between yams and sweet potatoes, despite the internet’s wealth of information, but I damn sure know the difference between sweet potato and, say, potato. I definitely can taste the difference between the smooth sweetness of a sweet potato and the starchy blandness of yucca. Or so I thought, anyway.

If you’re from the U.S., you probably don’t really know the difference between sweet potatoes and yams, either. According to the Huffington Post- and several other websites*-, the USDA (U.S. Department of Agriculture) long ago decided to label some sweet potatoes as yams based on their color and texture, even though yams are actually a different plant. (´Merica. Sigh.)

When you add Spanish language and American cultures into the mix, things really get messy. Here in Oaxaca, it all gets called camote, the word used here for sweet potato.  However, some of the things that are called camote look and taste to me like yucca (the term used in Cuban restaurants in Louisville) aka mandioca (the term used in Paraguay where it’s a diet staple), which apparently is called cassava in English. I think. Confused yet? Great. Me, too.

Since I’m not a botanist, perhaps all these multicolored roots are all camote, and I just can’t wrap my little gringuita head around so many types and flavors of sweet potato.

camotes

Just a few of the many kinds of camote I run into in the market

They don’t all taste the same, either, so occassionally I buy something and am unpleasantly surprised by its flavor. It happened to me the other day- I found myself with a whole kilo’s worth (2.2 lbs.) of boiled camote that tasted bland and sticky and starchy like yams (cassava? yucca? mandioca? Whatever it’s called- the semi-flavorless one.) Now, according to what I’ve since read on the grand internet, cassava requires more processing or it can be poisonous. Since we didn’t die of cyanide poisoning, I suppose it really wasn’t cassava. But geez was it dull!

But as any good cook knows, really bland food is an artist’s blank palette. Did you know, for example, that tapioca comes from that boring old cassava root? So I set out to make it taste like something a little jazzier. I used my typical tactic of blending about 5 different recipes with my own ideas. Here’s the recipe I came up with, in case you ever find yourself in a camote conundrum like mine:

Camote Patties

Ingredients:

2 cups camote, boiled and mashed (perhaps 1/2 – 3/4 lb.raw)

1/4 lb. ground beef, fried with 1/2 an onion and 2 cloves garlic (could be omitted or substituted for soy, with extra spices)

3/4 cup corn kernels

handful of cilantro, chopped

very generous sprinklings of salt, pepper, cumin, paprika

garlic powder and hot red pepper (cayenne or other) to taste

2 eggs, beaten

breadcrumbs

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my mixture… the purple part is the camote

Instructions:

  1. Boil the sweet potato / potato / other root vegetable (I bet turnips would work nicely, too) until soft. Mash with potato masher and set aside.
  2. Fry the ground beef with onion and garlic and the spices listed above. Set aside. (I did this in steps- one day I cooked the camote. The next morning I cooked the meat. In the afternoon I actually finished cooking the meal. It’s no big deal for things to be refrigerated while you’re getting it all together if needed.)
  3. Mix in all the ingredients for patty mixture- camote, meat, corn (thaw first if frozen), cilantro and more spices. Form into patties whatever size you want. Dip in egg and then in bread crumbs.
  4. Fry for 5 minutes on one side and 3 on the other (disclaimer: that’s an estimate. I didn’t actually time it- I just eyeball it.) on medium heat, until a little browned on the outside.
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frying the patties

Alternately, you can mix the egg and breadcrumbs into the patty mixture and fry from there. I opted for this dipped version to cut down on the amount of egg and breadcrumbs I used, but I made a couple the alternate way at the end and they were really good. Regardless, my kids devoured these, and Conan and I both enjoyed them as well. I plan to use this recipe next time I accidentally purchase the wrong kind of sweet potato. Enjoy! Buen provecho!

*This website had the clearest explanation: https://www.loc.gov/rr/scitech/mysteries/sweetpotato.html

Or here’s a funny flowchart if you’re still baffled and need to know:

http://lifehacker.com/this-flowchart-shows-you-if-youre-eating-a-yam-or-a-sw-1472702569

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Double Trouble, My Two Mini Forces to Be Reckoned With

28 Dec

“I think this one will be more obedient for you than Lucia,” Arturo suggested about Khalil, my nine month old baby. I laughed maniacally in response.

Not that Lucia is particularly disobedient, but she is one determined child. She is pretty clear about what she wants in any given moment. At 3, she’s capable of sitting and working on something over and over and over and over and over again until she’s got it totally down, preferably in one day if possible. Like when someone gave her an alphabet puzzle at age 2, she made someone sit down with her about 15 times a day to do it every single day until the pieces were torn up, just because she was interested, even though the alphabet still meant nothing to her.

She’s also willing to do just about anything to get her way if you are keeping her from doing something by herself that she’s sure she can do, even if you’re sure she can’t yet, or if it’s too dangerous to risk. Going down steep stairs in Juquila this week, for example, she screams, “You don’t go! You don’t help me!” Sorry, kiddo, you’re gonna keep losing this battle for a while. Or we come up with elaborate compromises, like, “You can brush your teeth by yourself first, and then I’ll do it for you at night. And you can do it by yourself in the morning.”

Then there are all the things that she theoretically wants to do by herself but it’s still a bit too overwhelming for her. She wants to pick out her own clothes, but there are often just too many options in the drawer for her to manage. Thus I go and pick out her clothes, or I pick out maybe two options for her to chose from so she still feels all autonomous and such. But then half the time she doesn’t want either of the options I’ve picked. “Not that one!” she yells, as if I’ve just kicked a helpless puppy. “Okay, but you asked me to pick out your clothes today, nena,” I remind her, trying to maintain my own calm, grown-up voice. “But you don’t pick that one!” she responds. “Okay, if you don’t like what I picked out, why don’t you pick out your clothes?” I suggest. “No!” she screams. “You pick out my clothes!” Like I’m totally shirking my mommy duties by suggesting she do something she normally likes to do herself. Crazy three year old logic!

Payback’s a mother, as my dad would say, if he weren’t using some other colorful word to describe it. The best and worst thing about having kids is all the ways in which they are just like you. I was a fiercely determined and independent child, adolescent, and… well, surprise! I am still a fiercely determined and independent adult, although thank goodness I’ve learned a bit of tact and tactics to compromise since my teen years.

Lucia is fierce, and thus far there is zero indication that Lucia’s little brother will be any different in his fierceness of will. If anything, he is looking like he’s going to be even more of a firecracker than my raging, shooting star of three year old willpower. Geez. Am I grateful? I suppose.

Being both grateful and frustrated, I have to say, I have been getting a kick out of seeing little Khalil go up against his grandmother and aunts here in Juquila. I don’t even have to put up any resistance to their demands, because Khalil does it all for me. They put a hat on his head and in .3 seconds he rips it back off, over and over again. “Don’t let him crawl around on that cold, hard floor!” they gasped at first. But there is no keeping Khalil in your arms when he is ready to get on the floor and play. He screams like a banshee and twists and turns and pushes off from you until you finally put him down, fearing that otherwise he’ll slip down for all his resistance.

His necessity to do what he wants is on par with a cat in heat’s level of necessity- it is a biological imperative; he wants to go, and he wants to go NOW. He is working on walking, and there is no stopping him from exploring and pulling up on everything. So then the women of Juquila changed their demand to, “Put him on the petate,” the straw bedmat. Bwahahaha, I laughed to myself maniacally, as he immediately crawled away from it, time and time again. He refuses to dress warmly enough for them, either. Last night he managed to get his socks off while sleeping, no less. He is his own smiling, clapping, adorable hurricane of determination.

This whole Khalil versus the abuela and tias and their folk beliefs situation is really, really fun for me. Payback may be ugly, but vindication is sweet. People in Juquila have been trying to impose their parenting styles and cultural rules on me since we arrived with seven week old Lucia. I gave in on a lot of things, especially since I was not living in my own place. For instance, Lucia never learned to crawl, and I still think it’s because nobody would ever let me give her free rein on the floor. I spent many a night bitterly restricted to the bedroom, alone with Lucia, instead of being in the kitchen or the doorway (where all the social activity was happening, where the cold was sure to harm that poor baby, according to people’s beliefs). Lucia’s first year of life in Juquila was a very tricky experiment of testing wills and culture clashes.

But did I mention that I am intensely determined to do things the way I think is best? I slowly developed polite ways to ignore people’s demands, pulling my foreigner card left and right. Already some folks have had to face up to the fact that I’ve been right about some parenting things. Seeing how well Lucia speaks both English and Spanish, for example, has forced people to admit that, gee, it’s not detrimental for me to speak English to her.

Now, with baby number two, I’ve gotten a lot more expert about insisting on Conan’s and my parenting happening instead of all the things that helpful in-laws just know are correct. It helps that we have our own house, although autonomy is not particularly respected as such. It helps that I am much more sure of myself as a parent, and much more sure of my place here, as a foreigner who’s now very adapted to where I live. But more than anything we are “winning” this one because Khalil refuses to be restrained! Hats? Hell, no! Socks? Not for long, suckers! Staying in one place? In your dreams, tias!

Of course this also means that Khalil doesn’t let me impose a whole lot of my will on him, either, which is a bit trying. Trying to change the diaper of a child who refuses to lie down- without poop flying everywhere- is a daily adventure. Between him and Lucia, we have our hands full and our patience tried, over and over and over. But it’s worth it. They’re my sweet, lovely, fierce little hurricanes of will. In the end, I hope they’ll become two polite, kind, not over-imposing but independent, determined grown people, and my vindication will keep being sweet.

khalil cute hurricane

the cutest little hurricane you ever did see (well, okay, according to me. I might be biased.)

lucia pre pre pre teen

My pre pre pre pre pre teen (aka THREE year old). Getting her attitude ready for adolescence. `Khalil about to make himself fall out of the swing in the background, of course. 

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Today I Freely Choose To Be Here Now

30 Aug

We didn’t have much of a choice when we moved to the southern state of Oaxaca, Mexico, three years ago this month. A ridiculous immigration system was kicking my partner out of his home of 10 years, and effectively taking me and our 7 week old daughter with him. Of course I could have stayed behind, but that wasn’t an option I was interested in. So I was going, but it felt like I was forced, like we were forced, like our life was all totally out of our control. If there’s any time in life when you’re aware of your total lack of control over your life, it’s when you first become a parent. Add being uprooted from your home to the mix and it’s a recipe for personal crises (yes, crisis plural).

When we arrived we had nothing but 5 bulging suitcases, a newborn, and a whole lot of faith in our love. We were lucky enough to have a home to arrive to, going to live with Conan’s mom, but it was still not quite our own home. Lots of things have greatly improved in our lives since then. We’ve far outgrown our 5 suitcases. Our newborn has turned into a preschooler who has a baby brother to boot. We have a car. We have our very own house. We finally have electricity in our house, complete with a refrigerator and washing machine. I have a full-time job that I enjoy. We don’t live with anyone’s parents, and we don’t live in a tiny town that we both hate. If that’s not progress, what is?

So we’ve moved up in the world and everything should be perfect now. Except it’s not. This week in particular I had a personal crisis that made me totally rethink and question where I want to be. And boy, was I pissed about it. How could I think about being somewhere else when finally our life is put together here? How could things be falling apart if everything’s finally great? I have a washing machine, for cripe’s sake! What could I be unhappy about now?

The problem is, progress isn’t what actually sustains us, right? “Moving up” in life can only mean so much, since life doesn’t appear to be some vertical venture. Despite having all the things I was sure would make my life great (and our car didn’t even break down this week), I was terribly, profoundly unhappy.

Partly I was unhappy because this whole time I’ve held onto my anger and helplessness at the injustice of us being forced to move down here at that moment. I’ve spent too much time visiting if-only land. If only we hadn’t moved here, we wouldn’t have this problem. If only x, life would be better. If only y, I’d be happy. Partly it’s that this time of year, full of anniversaries (our move, our first kiss, Lucia’s conception), makes me nostalgic and frustrated. I was clinging on to some happy, joyful memories, trying to cut and paste them into the present.

Five years ago, in the steaming hot months of August and September, Conan and I converted our friendship to something more. We went out for bike rides through Louisville’s beautiful parks. We went out for beers at all the microbreweries. We posted up on the back porch of my charming, cheap Victorian apartment and talked, for hours and hours and hours. We held hands at WorldFest, the fabulous festival of world cultures. We went to the farmers’ market, and I cooked us elaborate, local, vegetarian dishes that he devoured appreciatively. We went to friends’ parties and weddings and birthday celebrations. We ate Mexican fusion sushi and drank Vietnamese avocado milkshakes and decided on our favorite Indian buffet, among other culinary delights. We sipped bourbon on the front porch. We fell in love. Those places and activities epitomize what I love about my city, about my culture, about what I left behind. They remind me of moments, too, when my love for Conan was so uncomplicated, so easy, so perfect.

Nowadays nothing ever seems to be simple or easy. In theory I know that nothing stays the same, that you can’t return to the past. That love is a lot of work to maintain. That nothing is ever perfect. That the past wasn’t as easy breezy as it seems in hindsight. That Louisville is not utopia, and we’d just have a different set of problems there. I never did and never would love everything about my city and my culture. And while in the beginning of any relationship it can seem that everything is perfect about the other person and they way that you interact, that illusion of perfect can’t last, either. I know all these things, I do. And yet it doesn’t stop me from torturing myself, wondering how our lives would be if we could just go back. If we could have stayed. If we could return.

I did just return to Louisville for a visit, and I had to face the fact that our relationship to a city evolves while we’re away. Some things disappear, like our favorite Indian buffet. Some people who were central to your life there move away or pass on. Other things remain, but they’re not what they once were to you. Like Big Rock, my favorite spot in Cherokee Park. It used to be my spot to climb around and sit by the creek to think or talk. But this trip I could barely tear Lucia away from the playground area long enough to notice the creek, and we didn’t even climb up anything. My charming beloved apartment is still there, with the same weird neighbor who plays guitar horrendously. (Yep, I even have nostalgia for that.) But I don’t actually want to live in that apartment anymore. We payed a fortune to nearly freeze to death every winter! We had recurring mice attacks! All kinds of things were wrong with it, and, more importantly, it just wouldn’t suit me anymore. It’s not part of who I am now, even though for a good while it was the “perfect” place for me. My city’s changed, but I have changed, too.

So I know. We can’t go back to before. We can’t know what would have happened if we’d stayed. And we can’t know what will happen in the future, even if we’ve got it all planned out. We don’t have control, even if we think we do. I know. But living this knowledge, breathing it, feeling it when I’m stuck in an emotional crisis, is quite a different matter.

But today, suddenly, after days of walking around in a funk, in a daze of depression, I woke up and remembered who I am. I am a badass Kentucky girl, living in Mexico, raising children, trying to make some kind of tiny positive difference in the world, trying to find laughter and love in all kinds of places, rebelling from the system like always, albeit in different ways than before. I am my brave, wild-spirited, fiercely-loving Nonna’s granddaughter. I am my mama’s daughter. I am my dad’s daughter. (Two amazing spirits). I don’t need to freak out about what I’m going to do or where I’m going to go in the future, because regardless, I’ll make it work. I don’t need to worry about what other disasters will happen, because I’ll just deal with it. There will be good things and bad things and struggles and joys, and it’ll all be okay. Repeat after me: I am a badass, and I will be okay no matter what happens.

I woke up this morning and drank my lovely Oaxaca coffee and wrote my three “gratitudes” for the day, even though and especially because I had not been feeling so blessed. I did some yoga, and actually focused on my body, and noticed how wonderful and strong my body felt. I chose not to get upset or yell when Lucia woke up grumpy and freaking out about Cheerios and everything else possible. I put on Paul Simon, a makes-me-happy-from-lots-of-good-memories CD I inherited from my dad, and danced around my kitchen while I made breakfast, singing loudly and off-key. I decided to be happy. I decided to know that I am worthy and good just because. To feel it and breathe it in. To just be here, for now.

Because I know now that I can be here and have a good life. Or I could be in Louisville and have a good life. Or I could be in Timbuktu or somewhere, and somehow I will have a good life. It’s always going be a struggle of some sort or another. No place is perfect. Getting established, in terms of getting your physical and social needs met, finding furniture and friendships, is a process. But even if we started over again somewhere else, I now have a much better idea of how to incorporate and appreciate the things- the moments- that make life so worthwhile. I know, suddenly, finally, that I always have choices.

Even if the options don’t seem plausible, even though none of the options are ideal, I do have options. Of course they’re not ideal! Life’s really hard. And it’s also really great. It’s taken me three years of this exile with my partner to come to terms with it. To finally decide that this is my choice. We weren’t just victims of a messed up system. That’s only a partial truth. We did have other (less appealing, more difficult) options, and we chose this. I chose this. I’m here, so I might as well own it as my choice. Because the alternative is to keep resisting it. The alternative is to keep feeling angry, bitter, cheated. To wistfully romanticize the alternate life we could have had theoretically. And I don’t want that anymore.

Feeling free! If freedom's just another word for accepting that I don't have control over anything, but I can face every day head-on.

Feeling free! If freedom’s just another word for accepting that I don’t have control over anything, but I can face every day head-on.

Today, I made the choice to be here, just for now. Today, I decided not to ponder the effects of now on my future. Today, I decided not to lament what could have been. Today, I decided to trust myself and my feelings and my choices. Three years later, this is my true “progress.” Even though I don’t have control over all kinds of things in life, that doesn’t mean I’m a victim. This is my freedom- accepting my lack of control while acknowledging my inherent, universal worth as a human and my personal power over my life perspective. I won’t be happy all the time because of it, but I sure won’t be sad all the time, either. I am a badass, and I’ll be okay no matter what happens. Today I actively choose to be here, just for today. Tomorrow I can choose all over again.

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I Keep Waking Up from the Damn American Dream….

21 Dec

Some weeks I can only stand to read an article or two of news, because I don’t want students walking into my office to find me balling my eyes out, which is mostly what happens when I read the news these days. (You try being an inherently sensitive soul and then add pregnancy hormones to the mix.) I cried for two days after I read an article detailing the things mothers and grandmothers say to their African-American boys in the hopes of making sure they don’t get killed by police (thank goodness I read that one at home and not in the office). I took a long (silent crying) restroom break when I read about some foreign parents in the U.S. who might be reunited with their children after years of separation, thanks to a new policy by Obama (and then thought about all the people I know that it won’t help reunite with their children still). Some weeks I think that the United States of America is a place that is much too cruel, unjust, and lacking in positive values for me to even attempt to live and raise children there.

(You should definitely read this article. Tell me you can read it without crying: http://www.stltoday.com/lifestyles/relationships-and-special-occasions/parenting/aisha-sultan/black-moms-tell-audience-how-they-fear-for-their-sons/article_050d4db8-8155-568a-93d3-20ec1d10f7a4.html

Other weeks I want to cry thinking about the injustice of our family being banned from there, of the possibility that we might never go back as a whole family. Some weeks I am bitter and furious that this crap that we’re going through didn’t have to be like this if the U.S. were less racist (It’s almost beyond even my best dreams to imagine it NOT at all racist- how sad is that?).

If we were still in Louisville, we would not be living in the dark. We wouldn’t have had to get rid of nearly all our belongings and start to accumulate them from scratch again. We’d have at least one closet. We’d have my reliable old Honda still and not be fighting with this car and all its problems. Most of all, we could have transitioned into parenthood with all of our friendships and support systems, instead of the both of us being alone and isolated and surrounded by families who mostly had very, very different types of relationships and values than what we were hoping for. So I get angry thinking how this wouldn’t be the case if the U.S. were not so incredibly racist. Or if Obama had put some of these new immigration policies into place sooner. Or if Conan had better luck. Or if we won the lottery (okay, this wouldn’t solve everything, but it sure would help!).

Then I remember that if we lived in Louisville we’d surely have different problems anyway. It would be winter time now and we’d be worrying about being able to pay our heating bill, for instance. We wouldn’t have our own house. Conan would probably be mostly out of work for the winter. Lucia might not even know her paternal grandparents. I’d be worrying about Lucia having too large a sense of entitlement, and getting shot in school (all those crazy white people and their guns!) and all kinds of other stuff that I never worry about with her here.

The reality is that having a “mixed” family means there are going to be things we’re missing out on and pining for no matter where we live. We were talking to some friends on Conan’s birthday about how in the U.S. you can get a six pack of imported beer and it doesn’t cost a third of your paycheck. Or how you can try all kinds of different food at restaurants for a reasonable price. And how you can acquire your entire living room set for free on the weeks when people put their “junk” out for trash pickup. How you can even get perfectly good food from the trash- a bruised apple, someone’s incorrect pizza. I was getting nostalgic and sad when Conan pointed out that when he was in the U.S. there were tons of things that he missed from here.

Conan spent ten years in the U.S., without being able to come back for a visit. Ten years without seeing his mom, ten years without tasting a decent tlayuda. This week I almost cried witnessing other people’s reunions and hopes for a future with more flexible borders for their families. My Chicago-native ex-co-worker finally got an interview with US immigration for her Mexican husband after six years of waiting and fighting. They’ve been moving all over Mexico for those years, trying to make just enough of a life, have just enough happiness to go on until they can go back to the U.S. Which now all depends on this interview next month. (Cross your fingers for them, please.) Let’s hope they can accomplish their version of the American Dream.

Then some friends from the U.S. came by, another “mixed” family who’s been waiting in the U.S. for their paperwork to go through for several years now. The husband had his interview and was approved (yay!). They were here with their seven year old son and the husband’s whole family (well, those that aren’t in the U.S.)- a traveling band of ten people altogether that came to have breakfast with us. The husband hadn’t seen his family down here in twelve years. They’d been here the better part of a month, and the wife reminded me of myself when we first moved down here- still in culture shock, trying to understand and appreciate this family bonding time, but totally unaccustomed to the overwhelming influence of family like this, the complete lack of appreciation of individual needs and wants. Bless. I am so pleased for them that they can now come and go, money pending, and see the family down here semi-regularly. I am so pleased for them that they don’t have to worry about being separated. I’m so pleased for them that they know where they want to be, and now they can be there together.

We, on the other hand, don’t have quite the same American Dream. These days, I dream of a time when we could have a theoretical choice about where we live. I dream of the day when Conan can go with us for a visit. Sometimes I wish we could live there now, or that we’d never left. But that’s not the case, so I shake myself awake and start the dream over again. Now we have a house and a growing family here, and that’ll have to do for now. We’re separated from my family and so many friends in the U.S. who are like family, but we have other people to be grateful for here. I try not to cry too excessively, especially not for myself. I rejoice in other people’s reunions and joys. I mourn other people’s losses and struggles. I remind myself that it’s not easy, no matter what. And I dream of a day when borders are just fences we can climb, imaginary setbacks we can overcome. I dream of a day when a racism-free world at least seems plausible even if it doesn’t exist yet. I dream of a day when families don’t have to be separated. I dream of a day when mothers don’t have to beg their sons to just be humble even in the face of blatant injustice, so they can come home alive because they were born the “wrong” color. I dream of a moment when we can talk openly about these things, when we all take the time to educate ourselves about the injustices affecting others, and work to change things, even though knowing makes us cry. Maybe tomorrow I can wake up here in my little corner of America and cry, but from solidarity and not sadness, knowing that empathy will do more to improve the world and give me my version of the American Dream, someday. For now I’ll use my tears to wash away some of the bitterness of injustice, the difficulties of life, for me, for so many people in so many ways. I’ll wake up and shed tears of joy for the reunited families, for the mothers whose children come home alive another day, for all of the hope that we can breed, starting with changing our dreams. 

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Building My Own Yellow Brick Road

14 Apr

“Envy has some pretty major flaws,” I thought when folks expressed that they’d love to be in my shoes. I was pretty sure that none of my friends would kill to be in my dusty, worn-out Chucks, scrubbing their family’s clothes on a washing board with a scrub brush, constantly trying to sweep the sand and dirt and dust out of their sleeping and living area, battling the onslaught of mosquitos at dusk so intense it sounds like an oncoming freight train, spending like 3 hours just to make coffee and breakfast in the morning because only 1 burner on the crappy camping-style stove works at a time. Although if you are, indeed, dying for that authentic Mexican* experience, by all means, come on down to my house.

my lavadero (washing board)

my lavadero (washing board) – with my bike in the background!

In fairness, I think my Facebook friends and family must’ve seen one of our pictures from the beach (the few times we’ve gone to the beach) and mistaken our life here in Puerto Escondido for the life of some of the gringo bloggers I read before moving down here, the people writing (and living) stuff like it’s so great to live in Mexico because we can afford all the domestic help we want for practically nothing. Or maybe they imagine us as semi-retired snowbirds, drinking some cafe con leche by the beach in the morning, spending the suffocating afternoon hours in the pool or the air conditioned house, and then… um… what else would we be doing? Lounging around? Biding our time till we go out to dinner with the other ex-pat friends? Getting our nails done? …Have you guys met me?

But the truth about my life here lies somewhere between these lines, neither in the depths of abject poverty nor in the blissful ignorance of material wealth. I could feed you all kinds of anecdotes to wash away any twinges of jealousy, tell you all the gory details about things we’ve had to do or things we’ve had to do without in this journey of moving and building a house, but really I want to tell you about all the things that make me head-over-heels happy with my little space in the universe. Today I am gonna revel in the confidence of knowing that I am exactly where I need to be.

So lemme tell you that yes, it is sunny and hot most of the time (while you’re freezing your butts off, dear gringo compatriots), and then even after that it’s still hot and mostly sunny with a bit of rain or a couple hours of coolness. This means I can wear skirts and tank tops most any day of the year, which already practically proves I was meant for this place.

And lemme tell you that I, the walking-talking PSA for seatbelts, have discovered that it’s exhilarating to ride in the back of a pickup truck, with the wind blowing my hair everywhere (and my skirt, too, a la Marilyn Monroe if I’m not careful), seeing all the scenery up-close-and-personal, grabbing leaves off of trees in a contest with 7 year old Emmanuel. (Yes, seatbelts save lives still. They are also mostly not an option here, so you might as well enjoy it.)

Lili -pictured with Uriel- demonstrating how I feel riding in the truck

Lili -pictured with Uriel- demonstrating how I feel riding in the truck

And lemme tell you that my sense of accomplishment is off the charts when I arrive somewhere on my bicycle, without hitting any sheep or goats, or being bit by disgruntled dogs, or flipping over on any of the plethora of speed bumps that I may or may not have seen first, or having been discouraged by the sand and dirt and rocks that is my road. I feel like me when I get home from the supermarket (“Me hunter/gatherer,” I grunt at Conan), my thigh muscles pounding from the uphill first half of the ride with umpteen pounds on my back, my heart racing and my smile plastered on crooked from the downhill second half of the ride, bathed in equal parts sweat and triumph.

And lemme tell you how I smirk at the Julia of four months ago who couldn’t get to and from her own house by herself, not even by taxi, much less any other way. Because the Julia of today goes all over town by micro (bus) and colectivo (shared taxi, 3 people in back and 2 in the front seat), by bike, by foot, or haggling with taxi drivers trying to charge me the tourist price. This right-at-home-here-thank-you-very-much Julia can tenderly make fun of the anxious woman who thought Puerto was so big and complicated, when it’s really so much smaller than my small hometown city of Louisville, Kentucky.

And lemme tell you how I marvel at subtle cultural things that contrast so sharply with Juquila, things someone who hasn’t lived in a town that’s like an emotional and intellectual coffin would surely take for granted. For instance, many people rest on Sundays. You have to go farther away to get tortillas because even the women that normally make and sell them give themselves a little break. Brilliant! People often walk down the street together as a family; it’s not just women and children doing their thing and men doing their own thing. Miraculous! Friends and family randomly drop in on each other for visits on a regular basis. Amazing! Strangers mostly refrain from unabashedly gawking at you and asking pertinent personal questions about you, addressing questions about you to persons whom are not you. This is madness, I tell you! Here in Puerto, there are universities and poetic graffiti and playgrounds and a million other things that add meaning and spark to life, and every time I notice all these beautiful details it adds to my sense of belonging here.

And lemme tell you how I feel tsunami sized moments of joy when I stand outside on our (still-in-the-works) porch and look at the incredible amount of stars in the universe that I can see right outside my door, when Lucia says “home” as we’re coming up the path to our house, when I can hear the giant waves from the comfort of my bed (even though we’re relatively far from the ocean), when Conan and Lucia walk around our yard calling out to all the lizards to come out and play, when I eat a hot pepper or a watermelon from our magical garden (that sprang up from spitting seeds without any work on our part), when I’ve got fresh mango or papaya or pineapple juice dripping down my chin, when I spend 100 pesos at the market and come home with an overflowing bag of vegetables, when Lucia makes a b-line for the ocean and screams giddily as she is nearly carried off by a wave, tethered to the land only by my arm. In all of these moments and many more, I feel sure and secure in our decisions to come live here, to raise our family here. (So secure, in fact, that I won’t even edit my run-on sentences! Take that, perfectionism! Ka-zam! Right in the kisser!)

the first ripe tomatoes from our magic garden

the first ripe tomatoes from our magic garden

And lemme tell you, sometimes my battle with the ants in my kitchen feels like it could devour me, sometimes the lack of electricity makes me bleak and weary inside, sometimes I miss people and past routines so much that I stumble, unsure of my path. Some days I want to turn back. But the real problem with envy, even envy over your own past, is that it distracts you from this adventure here and now, from forging ahead on your path, rugged and unpaved as it may be. And lemme tell you, some things and some days are horrendously miserable, and some moments are astoundingly fabulous, and then there’s everything in between. In the end, it’s just like your life, except it’s mine. So don’t be jealous, ‘cause my Chucks wouldn’t fit you anyway, and you’ll get your sunshine when it’s your time.

*I don’t mean this is the experience of all Mexicans in all of Mexico, by any stretch. Mexico is a vast and diverse country. I mean that it is a singular experience taking place in Mexico and that it is not like a tourist’s experience in Mexico.

an iguana visiting our house... Conan using the banana to show to-scale size of iguana, not to feed the beast ; )

an iguana visiting our house… Conan using the banana to show to-scale size of iguana, not to feed the beast ; )

beautifully melodramatic poetry on the street

beautifully melodramatic poetry on the street

more graffiti makes me happy

more graffiti makes me happy

my chile tusta

my chile tusta from the garden

the beginnings of our porch

the beginnings of our porch

the view from a truck one day

the view from Arturo’s truck one day

holding on tight as Lucia prepares to throw herself into another wave

holding on tight as Lucia prepares to throw herself into another wave

a float from the carnaval celebration

a float from the carnival celebration- another reason Puerto’s great

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One and a Half Degrees of Separation

11 Mar
my mama, visiting me and her granddaughter Lucia.

my mama, visiting me and her granddaughter Lucia.

Long ago, my mom and I developed this theory/joke that while there are six degrees of separation in the world, in Louisville, Kentucky, there’s only one and a half. Despite being the 16th largest city in the U.S. (don’t ask me why Louisville thinks that’s something noteworthy), if you’ve lived in Louisville long enough, it is pretty difficult to meet somebody you are not connected to already in some way, shape, or form. Louisville is the ultimate decent-sized city with a small-town feel. Louisvillians even manage to run into each other in other cities, no matter how unlikely.

I should’ve remembered all that when the woman in the mini-van (public transportation) started speaking English to me. Unfortunately, being the movie star/circus freak/outsider that I am here in this small town has taken a bit of a toll on my friendliness, without me even realizing it until now. We were going from Puerto Escondido to Rio Grande, the first leg of the trip back to our home in Juquila, with my mom and her partner, Dee. Partway into the trip, the woman in front of me turns around and signals Lucia, asking, “Is it a boy or a girl?” in English. Usually when people speak English to me it is some token phrase, not a conversation, or else they think that I can’t speak Spanish. “It’s a girl,” I tell her, in Spanish.

I’m surprised when she continues in English, this time addressing my mom as well. “Where are you guys from?” “Kentucky” says my mom. I await the usual response- something about Kentucky Fried Chicken, if there’s any “recognition” at all. But instead she says “Oh that’s my state. Where in Kentucky? Louisville?” Her English is great, and her accent definitely passes as a U.S. accent, although she pronounces Louisville the way it’s spelled (loo-ee-vill), the way outsiders pronounce it, not the ridiculous (correct) way Louisvillians normally pronounce it (loo-uh-vul).

“Yes, we’re from Louisville.” My mom or Dee replies. “That’s where I grew up,” she says. My mouth probably would have dropped to the floor with surprise, except that I was so excessively surprised that surprise turned to disbelief. How could she possibly be from Louisville? Other Louisvillians couldn’t possibly be living close to me, couldn’t possibly be taking the minivan from Puerto Escondido to Rio Grande. She must be bluffing, or teasing, or something, I thought. But how could she make that up? I mean, who around here’s heard of Louisville, unless they really have been there?

“Really? Where in Louisville?” I ask her, part friendliness, part curiosity, part test. “Jeffersontown,” she replies. The same neighborhood as my aunt Julia. Close to where my mom and Dee live. She tells me the middle and high schools she attended, a job she had on Taylorsville Road. She absolutely positively is a Louisvillian.

Technically, she’s from El Salvador, but she got to the U.S. very young and lived there until two years ago, when she moved down here with her Mexican husband to the town where he’s from. She is like my future, I think; I’m only 6 and a half months in, while she’s had two years to adjust. I try to investigate from that angle, asking her things about her adjustment. She’s living in a much more rural town, which means it’s also a lot harder than my situation in a lot of ways. “It’s really different, but I’m getting used to it,” she tells me, all positivity. Mentally I translate that to Spanish, since that is what I hear all the time. “Te acostumbras? Se acostumbra tu mujer/tu nuera/la gringa?” Meaning, “Are you getting used to it? Is she getting used to it” (when people ask my mother-in-law or my partner about me)? I am sure that she hears the same question, and I imagine her response is similar to mine. I always tell people yes, even when it’s a boldface lie, even in my most miserable and loneliest moments.

“Do you make tortillas there? Did you have to learn how to make them” she asks later. “No,” I tell her, “we buy them usually. I kinda know how to make them; I’ve done it before. But there’s a lady that passes by everyday that makes them to sell. And there’re also plenty of tortillerias that sell them.” I think about what her day must be like. I reflect on the fact that for me, coming from Louisville, there’s nothing to do and almost no conveniences in Juquila. So for her, also coming from Louisville, there must be like a negative 10 on the scale of things to do and conveniences in her town.

“Have you made friends there?” I ask, hopeful that she has, and that maybe it took her a long time like it’s taking me. Or that most likely people are friendlier there than here in Juquila. And if not, then we can swop stories about how hard it is to not make friends, about how closed and unfriendly people are, reminisce about the friends we used to have back in Louisville. “Yeah, I’ve made some friends.”

“Oh, good!! That definitely helps. Are people friendly there, then?” I ask her. And then she kinda backtracks, saying something about how she doesn’t always remember people’s names, but she knows their faces. And I wonder how many real friends she’s been able to make so far, with even less people in her town than in mine, with even more space between them. She tells me she has three kids- five year old twins and a three year old, and I add on an extra 20 points to the isolation calculations in my head.

“What do you miss about Louisville?” I ask her. “Everything,” she says, the only hint of despair I hear in our conversation.

I ask about her husband, who is sitting in the seat next to her but hasn’t turned around to join in the conversation, or even to glance at the gringa from the same city as his wife, this whole time. My shy partner Conan, who’s sitting in a seat behind me, hasn’t jumped into the conversation, either, but I know he’s listening intently and he has said a few words. Her husband lived in the U.S. for seven years, she says- not as long as she did, but long enough for him to not be getting used to his hometown again. Interesting how it’s easier to talk about someone else not adjusting, but if you’re the one who’s not from there, it’s like admitting your weakness, or maybe even your defeat, if you can’t/don’t/won’t “get used to it,” if “no te acostumbras”. I wonder if she told me she’s getting used to it the same way I always tell people that yes, “me acostumbro” just fine, thanks. Force of habit, and maybe a (reasonable and realistic) fear that if you really started to talk about how lonely and difficult it was, how homesick and isolated and trapped you feel some days, then you’d probably break down and cry right there in the middle of the street, or the minivan, or wherever you were.

I wonder, too, about the reasons for them moving down here. Did he want to move back, to be with his family, to show the kids to their grandmother, to be in his country again after seven years as a foreigner? Or were they forced out? Was he deported, or up for deportation? Or was she? I don’t ask, because I don’t want to get into our story either, here in the minivan. Surely if we see each other again we can chat about it.

Meanwhile we talk about her family, how they’re all in Louisville, just like all my family. She answers my unspoken question when she says at one point, “At least you can go back and visit anytime you want.” Well, “anytime we have the money,” I tell her, and then shut up when I realize the implications of what she’s said. While getting together enough money for a plane ticket when your family earns pesos instead of dollars can feel ridiculously out of reach, it is, at the very least, a possibility, a glimmer of hope. And with family in the U.S. earning dollars, willing and able to help me out, it’s a fact that I will be going to visit, sooner rather than later. Not only that, but my family can come and visit me here in Mexico; there’s my mom and her partner in the minivan with us as testimony.

And what about my fellow Louisvillian? Not only will she never be going to her high school reunion, she couldn’t even go to her mother’s funeral last year. Her siblings can’t come see her. She is homesick for a place that she has no legal right to return to. Just to visit her adopted hometown she’d have to risk her safety, her liberty, her life, and probably have to leave her kids behind to boot. She is like millions of other people who went to the US as children, only to later find themselves country-less.
(In 2008, there were 1.5 million children in the US who were unauthorized immigrants, according to the Pew Hispanic Center).

I can’t really imagine how much strength she must need. As I write this, it’s been seven months since we got on a plane to move to Mexico. Becoming a mother and simultaneously moving to a very unfriendly, geographically isolated small town is thus far the hardest thing I’ve ever done in life. I think about the black raincloud of despair that drifts over me for periods of time on more days than I’d like to admit. The despair attacks me despite the fact that my family and some friends can come and visit me, despite the fact that my daughter and I can go there and visit, despite the fact that maybe, theoretically, potentially, possibly, someday, Conan and Lucia and I could all move back to the U.S. together. Despite all those glimmers of hope, and despite all of the good things I have going in Juquila, I still feel exiled and alone more often than I’d like.

So I think about this woman leading a parallel life, my fellow Louisvillian, a fellow mother, a fellow immigrant in Mexico, a fellow lover/partner/wife/whatever-you-wanna-call-it who loves her partner enough to move to another country with him…. I think about just how connected we are, just how connected we all are, and it leaves me baffled. How can we be this similar, how can we be from the same city, and be living in the same area, and not have known about each other before? What synchronicity to meet like this! But more importantly, how can she and I be in such a similar situation, and yet I have all these legal rights and privileges that she doesn’t have?

It reminds me that there’s a lot left to fight about when it comes to equality. It reminds me that as much as I love Louisville, I’m not sure I want to raise a family in a country that is so anti-family if you have the wrong color skin- a country that every year deports more and more people, no matter the circumstances, no matter their how dug in their roots and family ties are. And it reminds me that no matter how small a world it is, no matter how many or few “degrees” are separating us, as long as there are laws that value some people more than others, we’re all a lot more separated from humanity than we’d like to believe.

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Epic Burgers

5 Sep

I didn’t plan to come to Mexico to eat burgers. Yes, burgers. Not burritos. Not chimichangas (which aren’t real Mexican food anyway). No. Burgers. Go figure. I’ve been a vegetarian, most of the time, since I was 11 years old. The exceptions have been mostly when I’ve been out of the U.S., which has been quite a bit in the past 10 years. Even so, the past several countries have all been in Latin America, and while I’ve eaten meat there (even Chilean versions of hot dogs!), I have not eaten a burger in at least 7 years. I believe the last time I ate a burger I was in Italy, with a horrendous case of boot-rot, and in an effort to avoid walking my travel partner got us McDonald’s, since it was the only very close food available where we were staying. (We swore each other to secrecy from the shame and irony.)I don’t even like burgers, or most meat, really. I eat it when I’m away because I want to try all the typical food in a country, because it’s convenient and I don’t always have access to what I would normally cook for myself, because I don’t want to reject food that kind people offer me. But I don’t get excited about meat, especially burgers.
But we walk down the street to visit Epic (whose name is actually Epigmenio, who people call Epig, which sounds more like Epic). I am not planning on eating a burger. But I am desperate to get out of the house, so I gladly accompany Conan, with Lucia wrapped up against my chest, of course. Epic is friendly. He speaks directly to me. He smiles- and has very cute dimples, by the way. He has that idiosyncratic I’m-super-busy-working-very-fast-but-it’s-all-cake-to-me, laid-back attitude that experts in the service industry do so well. It’s the first time I’ve seen that attitude here in Mexico, where tips do not prevail. It takes me back to that camaraderie of the restaurant business in Louisville. He chats with us despite the blaring volume of telenovelas, which he glimpses at from time to time- super multitasking, as busy as he is that night.
I can’t believe how many people come for his burgers. That night he runs out of burgers, so many people come, but he still has some hotdogs left…. More than the sheer quantity of burgers, I can’t believe what these burgers look like. I watch him prepare plenty of them before he gets around to taking our order- and by then I’ve decided that yes, I have to have one. Because these are Mexican burgers, after all. And not just Mexican burgers- these are fucking epic burgers.
Let’s see if I can manage to name all the ingredients:
-the burger (which I might add, is local beef, ground the same day, formed into patties by hand that afternoon- although I didn’t learn that till later)
-american cheese (or some equivalent of gross orange-yellow version of cheese, ew)
-bacon
-ham
-pineapple (for the Hawaiian burger, which I ordered)
-quesillo (delicious Oaxacan melty cheese)
-fried onions
-lettuce
-tomato
-avocado
-jalapeños
-ketchup AND mustard AND mayonnaise
And the verdict is in…. they’re fantastic! (Okay, so I got mine without bacon or American cheese. Even when doing as the Romans do and all that, you gotta have some standards.) You might think I can’t make a fair comparison, since I hadn’t had a burger in years. But come on, converting a vegetarian is a pretty impressive feat.  I advise you all to abandon your fast food burgers immediately, and high tail it to Juquila.
Even more important than the burgers (and what, you ask, could be more important than burgers?), I’m turning Epic into my first friend in Juquila. Call it instinct, sixth sense, intuition, whatever- Epic exudes friend-material energy; he’s friendly but also, I think, sarcastic and skeptical, he’s funny and giggles easily, and I think he’s strong and tough and nice and lovely. I don’t actually know him, especially not that first night when I go and eat his hamburgers, but I warn him that same night that he’s gonna end up being my friend. More details on that later, but I will mention that so far so good- he’s even the first visitor that’s come to the house to see ME (not for Conan, not for Lucia- but to talk to me!)…. I think it’s gonna be an epic friendship.

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Lucia in the sky with diamond… earrings? Or not. And other mama drama

5 Sep

Lucia, being a baby of not-quite 2 months old (at the time of writing this), looks pretty androgynous.  In the U.S., the color of baby clothing is what tends to identify a baby’s sex. I even had a nurse think that what was on the medical chart identifying my baby as a girl must have been wrong, since the baby was wearing green. In Mexico, apparently what identifies sex is earrings, or the lack thereof. So since Lucia doesn’t have her ears pierced, everyone assumes she’s a boy. When we say she’s a girl, people are shocked and dismayed. “When are you gonna do her little holes?” they ask. “When she asks for it,” we reply.  That stops some folks, but others insist that that’s silly; she really needs some earrings.
People also believe that babies here are cold all the time and must be totally bundled up, even in sunny, 80-degree weather. “Where are her socks? Where’s her hat?” someone scolded me (this is a theme, really). “It’s hot out,” I asserted. “When did she tell you she was hot?” Around the same time she told you she was cold- I didn’t say. What’s even better (“better” being more ironic and irritating) is when strangers insist on holding my child, and then when she cries they tell me it’s because she’s cold, or for some other reason which is surely my fault. It couldn’t be because she doesn’t want to be in their arms, even though she was not crying in my arms just 3 seconds ago and now that you’ve given her back to me she’s stopped crying again. No, no, you, the stranger, surely know better than I what’s wrong with my baby. Thank you.
Which brings us to another baby mama drama of mine: strangers snatching my baby from me. I realize it’s probably universal that people like to hold babies. I don’t normally mind other people holding Lucia. In fact, it’s often a nice little break for me and her papi. But my mama-bear instincts kick into high gear when people who haven’t even introduced themselves to me come up and try to take my baby out of my arms. There’s no, “oh, can I hold the baby?” or even, “hello, my name is so-and-so”. They just come and reach out their arms, and I’m a big bitch for not wanting to hand over my baby. I don’t care if they know Conan, or Conan’s mom Paulina. I don’t know them. And I am (one of two people) responsible for Lucia’s wellbeing. Even if it weren’t dangerous (and parents, you try telling me you like to hand your newborn off to strangers on a regular basis), it’s still exceedingly rude. I can’t imagine trying to take someone’s baby out of their arms without a) asking them if it’s okay, and b) INTRODUCING MYSELF, if it’s not already a friend of mine. Part of this is, I believe, another symptom of me not being a real human being here (or maybe there’s another reason why so few people will speak directly to me?). For example, day 2 in Juquila, I go to the corner store with Paulina, with Lucia in her wrap as usual. People in the store come make a fuss about Lucia (Okay, cool. She is an adorable baby and all that.), but they ask Paulina if it’s her baby. Ummm, have you seen Paulina pregnant in the past year? Is Paulina carrying this baby around wrapped up against her body? You obviously can’t really mean to ask if this is Paulina’s baby, so why are you asking that? Is it that important to not acknowledge my existence? We could make a comic book character out of me- the invisible mommy. Look! There’s a floating nipple feeding that baby! Look! That baby is walking down the street held up by thin air! Bless their little hearts, they surely just want to help poor Lucia, as it must seem that she’s all alone.
And then I have culture shock around safety. Car seats are practically non-existent, for example. We went out to eat tlayudas a couple days after arriving. A friend of Conan’s picked us up in their car, so we had our car seat ready to go. The friend rolled down the window and his 7 month old daughter was sitting on his lap. He says he’s teaching her to drive, and doesn’t understand why we’d want to use the car seat. Granted, I understand better as we drive around town- between all the hills and curves and speed bumps, the random livestock and the people in the street, you never actually pick up speed. But in this case my cultural idea of safety is soooo deeply ingrained that I can’t help but feel nervous and upset. All I can think is that of course it’s fine to ride around without a car seat- unless something happens. So I wrap her tightly in her wrap, pressed up against my body, put a seat belt around us both, and throw a prayer to the wind. What else can I do?
Being a mom in a foreign country adds a whole new dimension to what it means to adapt. I have always considered myself such a chameleon, so capable of accepting whatever happens as an interesting story, if nothing else. But between the fact that I live here now, that I’m not just passing through, and the fact that I have this adorable, precious, teeny-tiny being to take care of, it’s a whole new ballpark deciding where and how to stand my ground, where and how to refuse to adapt, and how to do it graciously. No one said that motherhood would be easy.

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That was then, this is now: the move

27 Aug

I was walking through the airport, pushing one of those carts that you can rent. It was almost overflowing, with 2 carry-on-sized suitcases, a backpack, a laptop, and a diaper bag. And those were just our carry-ons; we had 5 other full-sized suitcases we’d checked. It seemed absurd and excessive almost, but when you think about packing up your entire life- for you, your partner, and a 7 week old baby- getting it down to just a few suitcases isn’t really so bad.
But I was thinking more about 10 years before. I saw myself, barely 18 years old, headed off to spend 6 months in Europe, waking through the airport alone, my hair a mix of purple, red, and blue, a scowl on my face, hung over from my good-bye party that had lasted into early that morning, with nothing but a backpack. Not a backpacker backpack, mind you, but rather a school backpack. And that was all. No checked luggage. No purse. Just me and my backpack, and all my hopes and fears. I was sure I had everything I needed- essentially a couple changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a book, and a raging sense of adventure. What I lacked in packed items I more than made up for with my blank-slate-open mind and heart.
Ten years later, I’d like to think I’m just as adaptable. But I know I’m not. My life is different; I’m different. I’ve got way more baggage, in more ways than one. But that baggage is a mixed bag; it also means I have way more to bring to the table. And so this new phase begins.

 

 

 

Here we are on the plane:

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