jlsumich_mexico: ” Es de” , the Notorious Mexican “Like”

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March 12, 2007

” Es de” , the Notorious Mexican “Like”

Carla tells me I say it a lot. Ben tells me he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. Cristina says “Well at least you’re not saying ‘like’ and ‘um’ like you used to…” The fact is, I guess I am a culprit for saying “es de…” a lot. “Es de…” (or in English, the notoriously unnecessary “like” that filters through every sentence) has become a part of my daily speech pattern. I’m saying “es de” more and more, but as Cristina has noted from her “I’m Colombiana, hear me roar” throne, it’s better than dropping in English words here and there. The fact is, I think I say “es de…” a lot for two reasons. First, my brain has begun transitioning into Spanish. I start to think in Spanish more and more. The transition to “es de” was gradual and something totally unintentional—I was unaware of it myself until others started pointing it out. Secondly, I think these two short pointless words jump into my speech because on a whole, I’ve learned to speak more fluidly. I’ve been better at formulating my thoughts quicker, speaking faster, pronouncing my rr’s (after practing ‘ferrocarril’ with Carla a million times over), and so when I do have a short break in my speech—when I do get lost in my thoughts—it only comes natural that my fillers are in Spanish. Right?

I know that in English, using the word “like” unnecessarily is an example of definite insecurity and the inability to clearly articulate one’s thoughts; I’m pretty sure that the same holds true for “es de” here in Mexico. But the fact is (as crazy as it may sound), I’m actually really proud to be saying “es de”. I am. It makes me think back to my high school days—in fact, my freshmen year—when I had to take a public speaking course with Mrs. Rawlings. Every time we said “like” in class, she would ring a buzzer to call to our attention our bad habit…

“Like, that’s what happens,” says one student. BUZZ!

I am clearly visualizing my freshman days at Paramus High School, listening to the sounds of the buzzer over and over again.

“Like, what’s you’re problem,” says one girl. BUZZ!

It’s all coming back to me now—the room, the sounds, the sights, the smells.

Someone’s speaking at the podium: “Like President Lincoln like gave like all of his money like to the poor people and like worked to free the like-slaves-like.” BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! “Like pledge like allegiance to like the flag…” BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!

STOP all of you! Oh how the noise of the buzzer is killing my ears! Stop everyone and listen to Mrs. Rawlings! Stop Jeremy and Brandon! Stop Amy! Stop Kruti! Quit using the word “like” out of context! AHHH!

But here in Mexico, I find myself singing a different song, taking a different stance. It’s okay to show insecurity in my speech patterns—especially in these few months as I’m learning Spanish and improving the quality of my Spanish. Because I’m not a native speaker. And better I should be filtering my thoughts in Spanish than in English, right? And it’s better than sounding all choppy like Ben, right? “Yo… (5 minute pause)…. quiero… (5 minute pause)….agua… (5 minute pause)….por favor,” he says. That just sounds plainly stupid to me.

In spite of my overwhelming preoccupation—or, interest for that matter—in sound and speech patterns, I had a terrific last few days.

On Friday, I led the “Creative Writing Show” at the Colegio Americano. My students finally read their stories that they’d been preparing for weeks now in front of the other students in their grade. Erich, Jennifer, and I sat in on the show, grading and listening to the students present. Everyone did a really awesome job and it’s amazing to witness such tremendous learning. Although it’s hard to really be sure if everyone in the class is progressing at the same rate, I do my best to interact and talk with everyone. After each story, I stood up and started asking comprehension questions. If the students are paying to attend a bilingual academy, they might as well be getting a quality English education, right? Ms. Fanny (although I have no idea why she calls herself that—it’s not her name, nor anything like it) was taking pictures of me and the groups as the show was going on. Some pictures to follow on this site.

Yesterday, I found myself sitting in front of KFC at Gran Plaza with Erich.

“Whatever you do, don’t eat at KFC,” my mother tells me. I can hear voice clearly and see her telling me “I told you so,” all the way from New Jersey. I say this, because when my real family came from the United States to visit me in Merida about 3 weeks ago, they got sick from eating something at the KFC at Gran Plaza.

Bueno, the fact is, I don’t normally eat at KFC even in the United States so I dismissed my mother’s suggestion finding no harm in sitting just in front of KFC with Erich.

Our original plan was to go to the beach, but of course that didn’t work out. It rained the whole day. So, we decided to go the Gran Plaza to pasar un rato; he had never been and I found myself missing my Jersey-mallrat-spend-thrift childhood.

We spoke for a long time—almost two and half hours about politics, specifically about Bush’s arrival to Merida. And again, we found ourselves discussing how incredible the demonstrations all around town are. We had a really deep conversation, agreeing on almost everything, and agreeing to disagree when some of our opinions didn’t match.

The question still stands: How does participating in such a hateful protest bring any type of reform to an already underprivileged, economically dependent society?

And more so: What would my participation in such a protest say about me as an American? What would it say about me as a person?

What would a Mexican think about Americans if he or she were to see us holding up signs, demonstrating our president? Our country?

And I’d make the argument again and a hundred times over that despite any personal belief in the president (or lack thereof), he is a reflection of the United States of America. He does deserve respect. Remember, he’s the president of the United States.

And you’re not.

We also spoke a lot about the economic situation of Mexico and of other Latin American countries. Erich’s family is originally from Germany, but they migrated to Brazil right before the start of World War (II ?). Hence, he considers himself a Brazilian-German-American (actually born in Brazil) and knows a lot about the country that is still home to his grandparents.

As we agreed: If Mexicans have such imminent hatred—or, disgust—for the United States, then why don’t they just boycott American products? Aren’t they being a bit hypocritical, buying American products? We found ourselves saying over and over again that that just couldn’t possibly happen. This country depends on the United States for the economic stability of its people. But we also questioned why the United States doesn’t aid the economic crisis of other nations more.

What has our culture become? Have we become obsessed with materialism and forgotten about others besides ourselves? When we turn to the news in the United States what do we hear about? Britney Spears shaving her head? The death of Anna Nicole Smith? Sports and Michael Jackson’s court troubles?

Where has all the real news gone?

Where has our interest in helping others disappeared to?

Where has all our money gone to besides our fingers, our stomachs, and our two door leather convertibles?

But that’s just the way it is, I suppose… and I really thank Erich for such an intense, engaging conversation. It’s always nice talking to smart, well-spoken people—and especially those that are interested in the world around them…

By night time (after working hard on my Antropologia Mexicana resena), I found myself with Carla, Deanela and Erich at El Hoyo, every UADY student’s favorite café. I was happy to know that they added Tirimisu to the menu, one of my all-time favorite desserts and I indulged like no other glutton has done before. We spent some time there—small talk here, small talk there, and I saw Nidi the waitress that usually serves me during daytime hours. Afterwards we went to Noche Mexicana to pasar un rato and then I had the brilliant idea to walk all the way to el Parque de las Americas. They had been complaining of having sueños and couldn’t make up their minds about what they wanted to do.

So, naturally, I took the leadership position like I normally do in any group setting and I charged ahead to el Parque de las Americas, practicing my double rr’s with Carla and listening to the two others trotting along behind us, quejando.

Where has all our money gone to? Where will all our money go? Yours? Mine? The questions kept rolling around like circles in my head.

And yesterday, Sunday, the questions only grew stronger, more complex, and more emotionally charged in the back of my mind.

Maria Jose (a.k.a. MaJo) from the UADY Licenciatura en Literatura (in otherwords, from my Caribean Literatura Class and Latin American Literatura Class) invted Erich and I to come to her pueblo in Kanasin for the day.

The whole thing started when I told her weeks ago that I had an independent study to complete for Michigan about “what constitutes the Mexican identity” or, if there is such a thing. I explained to her how I was specifically looking at the treatment of Mayans in Yucatan as a point of investigation.

She told me that she lives in a heavily Mayan-populated area and that her mother speaks Mayan (and Spanish) and would be glad to help me. Hence, I jumped at the opportunity and invited Erich along. Living in Merida is one thing, but getting to know the people and lifestyle of a pueblito is totally an experience in unto itself. And it’s quite the Mexican experience, to say the least, being that this country is predominantly poor.

We took the bus from the Mercado in Merida to Kanasin and I noticed how the sights changed. Mansions and sidewalks changed to houses and broken pavement. Houses and broken pavement changed to shacks and dirt roads.

We got off the bus and walked to her house (and I use the term “house” loosely; I would most definitely, however, call it a home) and entered inside.

MaJo is one of five children—the middle child of the family. The house was terribly small and terribly crowded. There were no lights, no glass windows (only curtains), and not even real chairs around the dining room table. Nevertheless, it was interesting to note how they had a brand new television, a computer, a fax, and a fancy schmancy telephone. Again, it just makes me think about where my morals and values lay.

But anyway, the mother was incredible nice. It was evident, however, that she was not educated; I noted the extreme difference between she and her daughter. I interviewed her and spoke with her for a while about the role of the Mayas in current-day Mexico. How are they treated? Is their presence exploited? Is there an obvious difference in their class position?

Afterwards, we went walking through the pueblo and they introduced me to another woman—a Mayan woman. I had the opportunity to sit down with her and talk to her directly about her own experiences. I believe that I was the first American she has ever spoken to in her entire life and it made me feel really proud and even more enthusiastic about the work that I’m doing here in Yucatan.

I don’t remember her name off-hand (it’s on film), but she told me that she can’t read nor write, so I did the entire documentation on video camera. She told me what she respected most about the Mayan people is the beauty of their language. And I thought that it was an interesting response. (Yes, the English-concentrator came out in me for a split-second). I started asking her questions exactly pertaining to her interest in the Mayan language.

After my interviews, I returned to MaJo’s house. “Where’s your father?” I questioned her. I looked through the bustling household people, behind the heaps of wax, books, papers, dirt and debris. Where was the father? “It’s a complicated situation,” she told me. “My parents are separated, but not divorced.” Aha! And, I left the answer at that, thinking that her father lived somewhere else—in another pueblo, in Merida, or even possibly in another state.

What I didn’t realize was that he actually lived right next door to them, in another house of his own. What? I found myself having a hard time understanding their family dynamics. “He lives right next door to you?” I asked. And although there is somewhat of a language barrier between us, she “shhhhhhhhed” me as if I was talking face-to-face with another American. Being her age, I understood that something was not right and that it was not appropriate to talk about in the household.

Suddenly, a man came up from behind me and I learned that it was their father. He passed right through the house, introducing himself and talking only to me. He came in, took heaps of food from the table and the refrigerator, and left without saying anything. Later, he came back to take paper, pens, and other household items.

None of the children said anything to him. They didn’t even acknowledge his presence. And his wife certainly didn’t either.

I hinted to Erich some of my thoughts in English while we were there. I’ve had a lot of long conversations with kids in the UADY and my host family here about dynamics in pueblos. Very often, there is aggressive and very violent abuse that takes place in homes. Many times, the fathers are alcoholics. And many times, they take more than one wife without any second thought or consideration.

Although I didn’t question MaJo nor the other members of her family, I understood that one of these three things—abuse, alcoholism, or polygamy was probably the cause of such family troubles. I didn’t want to be rude. After all, we were guests in a poor home, where the mother went out of her way to make lunch for us and even help me with my interviews for Michigan.

But just to reiterate about the poor state of their household, Erich also told me that all of them slept in the same room—all of them. And they didn’t even have hammocks.

Kind of makes you think about what you have...and then again, about what you don´t have...

Bueno, all in all, I’ve had some really interesting experiences these past few days. I’ve done a lot of learning for school but I’ve done a lot of learning otherwise. I’ve had some incredible opportunity to get to know more of Mexican culture as well as the opportunity to get to know more of myself.

And I hope that these opportunities keep rolling along—even if that means filtering the quiet moments with “es de” to keep me going...