jlsumich_mexico

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March 28, 2007

The Waiting Room (or Dayna’s Dogs)

In Literatura Caribena today, we discussed the short story “The Waiting Room”. Unfortunately, I didn’t look at the syllabus correctly and didn’t read the right story. So as the class continued on with its discussion about the characters, plot, etc., I sat listening and thinking…

If I were to write a story called “The Waiting Room”, what would it be about? What type of waiting room would it be? What would be waited for?

I listened to Carmen, a student in our class, mention something about visas. How would I feel sitting in a room, a dark cold dusty room, waiting until my name was called to apply for a visa? What would I feel? Would I be nervous? Would I lie to the officer?

I heard the testimony of other classmates—how they tried to get a visa to travel to the United States but were not granted one. Had they waited in vain? Had they wasted their time waiting? I imagine that in today’s world, it must be very difficult for a Mexican to obtain a visa to travel to the United States…

But surely there are other types of waiting rooms, I thought. And so in my mind, I left that room for another.

I thought about our weekend to Chabihau and about Dayna, another extranjera from Muhlenburg University (we actually have a good friend in common there). Over the weekend I got to see a different side to Dayna—her “wild side”—playing with any random, stray dog that we came across…

I thought of the dogs of Mexico and the dogs of the United States…do the dogs of Mexico long for a home? What if they were all rounded up and placed in pet stores? Would they wait very long to be adopted? Would people actually adopt them? I bet Dayna and I would. It was incredible how much we bonded over the dogs of Chabihau—how we left in the middle of the night, side by side, alone without telling anyone—to go feed the dogs of Chabihau our extra food from dinner. Nobody knew about our work except for Dayna and me.

What would a waiting room for dogs be like? What kinds of dogs would wait? Which ones would eventually find a home?

Later on, I thought about how I had waited in Tatiana’s house for hours. She had invited me for lunch as a “thank you” for our hours of conversacion ingles that I hold in the centro every week. When I arrived I had planned on eating. Little did I know that they wait until 3:30 to eat lunch….

It’s amazing how much waiting we do in life…It’s amazing how many different types of waiting rooms there are. And as I write this entry, I too wait. I wait for tomorrow, when I head to Chiapas for the Semana Santa.

And as I wait, the sounds of my own two dogs from the United States echo in my mind…

Posted by jlsumich at 09:25 PM | Comments (0)

March 26, 2007

Untitled 2

Ella es de La Habana, él de Nueva York.
Ella baila en tropicana, a él le gusta el rock
Ella vende besos en un burdel
Mientras el se gradua en U.C.L.A.

Ella es medio Marxista, él es Republicano
Ella quiere ser artista, él odia a los Cubanos
El cree en la Estatua de la Libertad
Y ella en su vieja Habana de la Soledad

El ha comido hamburguesas
Ella moros con crisitanos
El, el champagne con sus fresas
Ella un mojito Cubano
Ella se fue de gira a Yucatán
Y el de vacaciones al mismo lugar

Mulata hasta los pies, el rubio como el sol
Ella no habla Inglés y el menos Español
El fue a tomar un trago sin sospechar
Que iba a encontrar el amor en aquél lugar

Lo que las ideologías dividen al hombre
El amor con sus hilos los une en su nombre

Ella mueve su cintura al ritmo de un tan tan
Y él se va divorciando del Tio Sam
El se refugia en su piel... la quiere para él
Y ella se va olvidando de Fidel
Que sabian Lenin y Lincoln del amor?
Que saben Fidel y Clinton del amor?

Ella se sienta en su mesa, el tiembla de la emoción
Ella se llama Teresa y el se llama John
Ella dice hola chico, el contesta hello
A ella no le para el pico, el dice speak slow
El se guardo su bandera, ella olvidó los conflictos
El encontro la manera de que el amor salga invicto
La tomó de la mano y se la llevó
El Yanqui de la Cubana se enamoró

Lo que las ideologías dividen al hombre
El amor con sus hilos los une en su nombre

Ella mueve su cintura al ritmo de un tan tan
Y el se va divorciando del Tio Sam
El se refugia en su piel... la quiere para el
Y ella se va olvidando de Fidel
Que sabian Lenin y Lincoln del amor
Que saben Fidel y Clinton del amor

Ahora viven en Paris
Buscaron tierra neutral
Ella logro ser actriz, el es un tipo normal
Caminan de la mano, calle Campos Eliseos
Como quien se burla del planeta y sus vicios

Posted by jlsumich at 06:05 PM | Comments (0)

Cristina, Queen of Colombia (or “The Awakening”)

I used to get along well with Cristina, the Colombian girl in my Rutgers group. I really thought it was cool how she was raised by two Colombian parents but grew up in Korea. But recent events this week have shown me a different side of Cristina’s character—something I’m not sure that I’m too fond of.

If you’re wondering about one of my last entries (I’m Not A Pushover…) it has everything to do with her and my upcoming trip to Chiapas with Erich. Erich and I booked this trip for over a month already and we had everything settled—the hotel accommodations, our itinerary, etc.

.......(this ommitted part of the blog has been set to ´´private setting´´) .......

In New York, we call people like that free-loaders.

We ended up having some problems deciding what to do, but in the end, I settled it. Cristina is not coming with us. Erich and I are going together, just the two of us, as planned. The settlement really has nothing to do with Cristina’s character—it has more to do with the principal of the matter. She is just as capable as any other extranjero student here and if she wanted to go on a trip to Chiapas, she had every opportunity to plan a more economical trip the way she wanted. So to rehash on an old entry, I’m not a pushover. Some things just don’t change no matter what country you’re in.

And this weekend reaffirmed my support for that decision. I went with a big group of kids (Erich and Cristina, included) to Frine’s grandmother’s house at Chabihau, a beach community about 45 minutes away from Progresso. We all took a bus from the centro on Saturday morning and made our way there together. And what was really cool was that we each got to bring our own hammocks for night-time.

My weekend at Chabihau was nice—certainly an experience. It’s a very impoverished beach community and the house we stayed in surprisingly hasn’t blown away yet in the wind. We all set up our hammocks and explored the area a bit.

By night-time, we build a camp-fire along the ocean front and toasted hot-dogs and sunchos. It was great to see everyone work together to build the fire and it turned out to be a really special time.

And then we began talking about life in the United States and our experiences here in Mexico. Cristina began on a tirade about her personal experiences here, not letting anyone really have a fair share in the conversation. Our discussion later turned a bit more philosophical, as we commented on the strong connection that the Mexican people have with Catholicism. Cristina announced to everyone that she broke from the Church because she’s been receiving “divine inspiration” (or something of the sort) from her boyfriend. Erich and I immediately picked up on her comments and we looked at each other. I chose to sit quietly and listen to everybody’s comments. Erich chose to argue Cristina’s beliefs.

The fact is, Cristina’s comments were strikingly odd—almost eerie, in fact. And it made me recall Daniel’s words weeks ago about being “balled and chained” in relationships. In a semi-prophetic, semi-stripper tone, Cristina told us how when she looks at her boyfriend, she receives omniscient knowledge, health, and motivation to continue living; after all, as she told us, her boyfriend is mere perfect.

When Erich challenged her beliefs and told her that nobody in this world is perfect (and that her decision to break from religion on account of a boyfriend was a shame), Cristina really got angry. She berated Erich for not talking to his girlfriend for 3 ½ hours a day like she talks to her boyfriend; she scolded him for not seeing the same “supernatural” qualities.

From a listener’s perspective, I must comment that Cristina’s situation seems quite unhealthy. Anyone that has to talk to a boyfriend or girlfriend 3 ½ hours a day from a foreign country seems to me like they are just insecure—like they just can’t make it on their own. Relationships shouldnt be meant to tie people down. They should be developed on mutual respect that two people have for one another.

.......(this ommitted part of the blog has been set to ´´private setting´´) .......

I’m quite happy and quite successful even though I don’t spend 3 ½ hours talking on the phone every night. I wouldn’t do this for anyone—friends or family.

And to be honest, I wouldn´t go around talking about my personal sex life either. Maybe I`m just modest, or maybe I just come with certain values, but I live my life by the rule : ``Whatever happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom``. A friend of mine in Michigan assured me that this outlook is not something to be ashamed of. And I thank him for his guidance...

Erich spoke to her a while about what finding god is all about and about what religion is able to offer a person. And I listened to Erich very carefully and agreed with him on every point that he brought up. I felt that it wasn’t my responsibility nor was it worth my time to try and break Cristina’s logic, but Erich went right for it, in a respectful and well-spoken way. And I listened VERY carefully to every exchange that the group made.

I think what upset me most about the conversation were Cristina´s comments that she made at the very end. It´s clear that she disagreed with Erich`s views and to be honest, her nonchalant attitude came off as being blunt and overly dramatic. But at the end, she made some sort of comment to Frine and Monica that if they were looking for the ``right guy`` maybe someone like Erich would come along their way. To me, this was like the climax of the whole situation. I could not have found Cristina to be more hypocritical, more overly sarcastic. And to be honest, I wasnt a fan of it. I dont know for sure if anyone else picked up on it and for Erich`s sake, Im hoping that he didnt think too much of it. I hope that he too learned a bit more about Cristina. The fact is, it`s not my place to ask.

After our group conversation, Erich, Rachael, and I sat by the fire and spoke a bit more about religion. And then Erich asked me a very profound question, something which came to me totally unexpected. He asked me what I think about when I go to synagogue and pray. He asked me why I go. What my personal beliefs are like.

And you know something; I’ve never been asked that before. Neither my parents nor my friends have ever asked me that question before. And I took a few seconds to think about my answer.

As strange as it may seem—as ironic as it may sound—my being here in Mexico, a Catholic country, has really made me identify with my Jewish faith like never before. Every time I go to church with my host family, I reaffirm and reassure myself of my Jewish religion and heritage and think about exactly what it means to be Jewish. And I think that the process is a really special thing—I think that it’s really interesting how through another religion, I can become more comfortable with my own.

Just as I’m big on diversity, I also find that it’s extremely important to learn about other religions. Because church or synagogue, Qu’ran or Jainism, we’re all people at the end of the day. Religion in my mind isn’t meant to divide. It’s meant to unite.

So when I answered Erich’s question, I thought about many of the ideas that have been running through my mind since I’ve been here in Mexico. And one such thing is the deep sense of community that I feel Judaism has to offer. There are no Jewish people here in Merida and therefore, every time that I go to Mass, and see the strength of the Christian community, I think of my own community back in the United States. I think of my Jewish community on the East coast—of my family, of my friends, and of those Jewish students in my town. And I think of my community at Michigan—at Hillel, at Chabad, and around campus.

And so I told him that when I go to synagogue, I think that I think of my community. Moreso than anything, I pray for my community—that we should all learn to become better people. I wish that we all learn to become more morally-sound, righteous, humble people. I know that this thought is idealistic, but it’s true. It may sound like something straight out of that middle school book we read, “Pay It Forward”; the fact is, the idea is a really sound one.

You see, nobody forces me to go to temple when I’m at Michigan—I go on my own behalf. And nobody forced me to work at Hillel—I chose that on my own behalf. And I could very easily lie to my family and friends and tell them that I do go when I don’t. But I don’t do that. It’s just not me.

My discussion with Erich and Rachael really opened up the doors to something much greater than I ever expected. I really do think about my community a lot—about those around me—and maybe that’s why I enjoy helping people so much and listening to their problems. I think for the first time I openly affirmed my faith in religion and the benefits that it has for a community. And for the first time, I really was unwavering about my position on Judaism.

As we sat the three of us, side by side in darkness, watching the moon over the open ocean water, we took turns listening to each other, respecting each other’s points over view. The conversation lasted for a long time. I felt really proud to be speaking in Mexico on behalf of my community. I felt really connected.

Like Erich and I agreed, from every bad in this world comes a good. I recalled my friend Stephanie’s statement on life: “All things,” she told me “are inherently good.”

And so no matter how off-base Cristina’s comments were, no matter how much I could not identify with her morals and values, about her thoughts on relationships and dating, academics and diversity and religion, something inherently good came out of such a bad, shameful conversation.

The ashes of Cristina’s comments ignited a spark in my own religious philosophy.

The three of us spoke well after the others were asleep and return to our hammocks, satisfied by what we learned from each other.

The next morning, we all got up and went to the beach. It was nice to be out in the sun and it was nice to just relax. There was no mention of the night before and I wondered if there was any lingering tension or unshared thoughts.

And as we were laying on the hot sand, I looked out into the open ocean water. I thought about what I had said the night before and I remained content.

Frine walked into the water. She kept walking and wading, deeper into the ocean water. Silently I watched and I thought of Kate Chopin’s “The Awakening”, a book we read last semester about Edna Pontellier, a depressed woman from Lousiana that kills herself by wading out into the open ocean and drowning. The woman believes she has married the man of her dreams but then finds out she has nothing left to live for.

Silently Frine walked further out in the sea, not realizing that anyone was watching her.

And then I wondered if Cristina would ever follow…

Posted by jlsumich at 05:53 PM | Comments (0)

March 25, 2007

The Disneyland Phenomenon

It’s been a fact of life that for a long time, people have coming to me with their problems, their worries, their concerns. I’m not sure exactly why that is, although I’ve come to accept it. And to be honest, I really can’t think when this all first started—definitely from the very beginning of high school, perhaps even in middle school. And I still am unsure: why me?

And it’s not something I really complain about; in fact, I feel honored that people come to me and feel that they can speak so openly, so honestly. I wish that I knew someone else like me—someone else that is placed in the same position, someone that is a good listener and knows how to handle tough situations. But the fact is, I don’t (at least not yet); and so for the time being, I have to accept the idea that I have a very unique specialty.

This “specialty” so to speak is something that has followed me here to Mexico. I never really thought that I would be listening to people’s problems in a foreign country (nor in Spanish, mind you), but it’s happened before. In fact, it’s happened a lot: extranjeros falling in love with Mexicanos and vice-versa, the challenges of culture shock, problems reconciling differences in culture on both ends, problems with host families and problems with guests. And more recently on Holbox, I listened to the personal family situation of Rosa, a girl that I traveled with.

And on Friday night, when I least expected it, I found myself working my job again. Doña Sarita first approached me about her concern for Lorena, her granddaughter. Lorena is a student at the Facultad de Medicina in the UADY and is such a nice girl. More recently, she has considered switching her major and will need to start in a new program. Because of scheduling at the UADY, she wouldn’t be able to start until February of next year and until then, she has decided to go to the United States to work. Both Sarita and Katinka approached me and asked me my thoughts about Lorena’s travels to the United States. I was put in an awkward position first of all because I was talking to a 70+ year old woman and a 50+ year old woman, but secondly, because I didn’t know how much advice or discussion was appropriate to offer to the conversation. I basically offered examples of my own personal apprehensions/nervousness before studying abroad and answered some of their questions about which parts of the United States I felt were safer—safer in general and safer for Mexicanos.

Then Sara spoke to me about problems she’s been having with Ben. He’s left the refrigerator door open this week and cockroaches have gotten into the food she’s prepared, he’s left his door opened several times to his bedroom, and he’s otherwise been generally aggravating. She told me that she’s going to fumigate the room and charge him for the service, since he’s the reason for such action and she asked if I could try speaking to him to make him understand that his behavior is wrong. I felt like it wasn’t my business to talk to Ben in such a way (after all, none of this really affected me; I’ve since moved into my own room and have been living a bug-free life since then) and that she should talk to him or she should get Elizabeth, our elizabeth to talk to him. I offered her some English words, however, to use in the conversation, thinking it would help the discussion.

Well, the discussion didn’t go so well and Ben came upstairs to me infuriated. He claimed no responsibility for any of actions and really, he didn’t see why any of it was wrong in the first place. I tried to act as a good listener; I didn’t want to tell him that I thought he was crazy. I didn’t want to add in any personal bias into the discussion. I just offered some “hypothetical” comments about why Sarita might have been mad.

In any event, we all went downstairs for dinner and the conversation continued over dinner. Ben and the host parents really aren’t getting along and they are pushing him to leave as soon as he can. They don’t want to kick him out, because they are dependent upon that money as their source of financial income, but at the same time, they are really not happy about him living under their roof. They are forever talking to me about his behavior and about what they can do to make him understand his place in the house and make him respect their place as well.

Afterwards, Ben came into my room and we started talking again. And surprisingly, the direction of our conversation and the tone really seemed to change. First we began talking about the general dynamics of our Rutgers group and great animosity that is growing between Cristina and Molly. Like Ben and I discussed: study abroad=money. Life=money.

And the reason that we brought this up is the following: ........(this part of the blog has been temporarily set to ´´private settings´´).

The conversation then shifted a bit and Ben told me that on Tuesday he broke up with his girlfriend and he said that the break-up is what has been possibly been causing his actions. To be honest, I thought it was incredible that Ben had a girlfriend, considering he has the personality of dead seaweed or—or worse, stale granola—but in any event, I understood that he really needed someone to talk to. He told me that they broke up because their ideas of “commitment” really were not clear. Apparently they started going out in August, she left for study abroad from September-December and then he left from January until the current time. So I really wondered to myself: did they really know each other at all? How much time did the really get to know each other?

Plus, he told me, since he’s been here, he’s only spoken to her about 2 maybe 3 times. And I’m not talking about over the phone. I’m talking about he’s communicated her via phone/email/whatever two or three times, period. That to me sounded really interesting…

I tried to offer him some words of comfort, although it was really difficult. We spoke about returning to a fresh start next year, a brand new semester at Grinnell, a brand new semester at Michigan. And I told him (almost begrudgingly) that I’m sure “good things will come his way.”

And then it was my turn to talk a bit. “Speaking of returning to a fresh semester,” I said, “I too am nervous about returning to Michigan.” After all, I thought, what kind of friend have I been here in Mexico to those I’ve left in Michigan? Have I done a fair job at keeping in touch with them? What if they don’t remember me? What if they don’t want to remember me?

Ben told me not to worry and he told me a story of his from high school. One year in high school, he said, his band took a long trip to Disneyland in California for a music competition. He couldn’t go because he had to attend a family function in Chicago. He was upset about it, because he felt like he was missing out, he felt like he would return to school and be out of the “loop” so to speak. He would be left out of the conversations regarding the trip, he would be left out of the memories.

But when he returned, he was surprised to hear his friends talk to him about the trip. They asked him what he had liked best about the trip to Disneyland and if he remembered certain events that took place at Disneyland. “I didn’t go. Remember?” Ben told his friends.

And the fact is, Ben told me, his friends didn’t remember that he wasn’t there. They didn’t remember because they generally associated good memories with their friendship. They generally associated a trip to Disneyland with Ben being there.

Ben calls this the Disneyland Phenomenon.

“If you’re truly friends,” he said “studying abroad won’t matter at all.” He told me I would be able to jump right into the swing of things again at Michigan. In fact, he said, many of my friends won’t even remember that I studied abroad this semester. They’ll talk to me as if I was living a semester in Michigan with them.

I really thanked Ben for the interesting discussion. I was really happy that he offered such an example and it put my own worries at ease for a bit.

And so for a while, I sat thinking about the Disneyland effect— thinking and writing.

And as I was thinking, I listened to the creaking of Ben’s doors swinging wide open in the wind….

Posted by jlsumich at 10:48 PM | Comments (0)

March 24, 2007

Some Overdue Announcements

Last week was an “okay week” all-in-all and despite the arrival of my Wolverine Access date and an uncomfortable (and rather aggravating) moment I was put through… I did really get to do some cool things.

Wednesday of last week was the spring solstice which marked the pilgrimage of thousands of people to the Mayan ruins. Many Mayans believe that the sun-god emits its highest amount of energy during the solstice, which is transmitted to anyone that makes their way to the sites. People from all over flocked to Chichen Itza (to see the serpent-like shadows descending El Castillo) and to Dzibichaltun, to see the sun entering through the Casa de Las Muñecas.

I had asked Melissa, an extranjera from Northwestern, if she wanted to join me and see the sight at Dzibichaltun. Melissa is a really nice and smart girl and we’ve had some really interesting conversations together. I also ended up inviting Ben (I guess I just felt he shouldn’t miss out on this opportunity). Melissa swore to me that the sun rises in Merida before 5:00 a.m. and that we should leave for Dzibichaltun no later than three in the morning.

So, we all met on the Prolongacion Monetejo at three in the morning and John, another student from another program, came with us as well. We got to Dzibichaltun in the complete darkness and saw many, many other people there.

When the sun came up, however, we were quite disappointed to find out that the “illusion” happened one day early this year. (Someone explained to us that what happens at Chichen and Dzibi happen on the solstice, one day before, or one day after). So the sun actually rose (which didn’t happen until 6:16, mind you) on the side of the Casa de Las Muñecas and didn’t shine through the doorway nor the windows.

Everybody frantically rushed into the woods to get a picture of the sun through the doorway at a different angle…. It was a bit of a disappointment, but still an experience.

On Friday, I was at Colegio Americano again after a week’s absence. Erich and I planned a lesson on American music for the students and I think they enjoyed it; although the songs that Erich chose were more on the difficult side.

In the other class, we had a debate about the relationship between Mexico and the United States. I thought that it was really interesting to hear the different perspectives—student perspectives—about issues of immigration and the economy. The class did a really great job and I was really impressed with some of their responses. I also asked what they thought about they Mexicans that left their country for the United States---if they are considered to be “traitors” or something of the sort. I got some pretty wild but complex responses….

Between all of this time, there was much discussion about changing my plans to go to Chiapas this week (rearranging the reservations, should I say rather politely) to better accommodate a potential third party. I’m happy to say that things worked out and we’re going just the two of us, as planned. I’m really looking forward to the trip & to some great discussions.

For the moment I’m swamped with work… it’s been harder and harder to work in my room (not only because Ben’s room is being fumigated to remove the insects and I’m constantly seeing beetles crawl his walls) because the weather has been getting hotter and hotter and I get tired more easily in the sun…

DZIBICHALTUN SOLSTICE PICS.

Posted by jlsumich at 09:44 AM | Comments (0)

March 22, 2007

I´m NOT a Push-Over, So Get Out of My Way

I´m NOT a Push-Over, So Get Out of My Way...

That´s all I have to say. Not in the United States, not in Mexico.

And hopefully this outlook won´t lose a friendship.
I´m sorry.

Posted by jlsumich at 07:14 PM | Comments (0)

I’m Headed Back to Reality (Whoops and There’s Gravity)

Picture this:

I’m talking to a friend and out of nowhere the friend asks, “Do you miss Michigan?” And then I stare blankly. So blankly, I might have even drooled a bit.

That’s it. That’s my story.

But the idea is actually far more complex than that and I’m sure you’re sitting wherever you are, wondering how I answered the question. And it took me a long time to think up my answer…

The fact is, there’s really no way to compare Michigan to an experience abroad. Sure, I miss my friends, great academics, great school spirit, and that little man on the corner of State and S. University that sells “Buck the Fuckeyes”” t-shirts every Saturday morning.

But that’s about it, to be honest. And in the grand scheme of things, I feel like my life at Michigan will only amount to a small part of my life experiences.

And it’s important to remember that going to the University of Michigan is a uniquely American experience—it’s probably a very similar experience to that of millions of college students around the country: classes, partying, co-curricular events, dorm life, etc.

I look at my experience in Mexico, however, as being very different. Sure, maybe I’m saying this just because I’ve been riding on a high the last few days, but in the end, when I’m back in the United States, I really foresee my study abroad experience impacting my life.

I’ve come to appreciate new cultures and appreciate my own. I’ve learned to travel well. I’ve learned a lot in my classes and I’ve learned a lot about learning in of itself. And of course, my Spanish has improved as a result of all of this.

You know, I was talking with Erich when we were at Holbox about the quality of our Spanish. I asked him to what extent he thought his level of Spanish has improved and he told me to a great extent. And I feel the same way; my speech pattern is a lot more fluid and my vocabulary has increased to an enormously. The only thing that scares me now is losing it all when I return back to the United States. And I am guessing my Spanish will rapidly decline.

Like we both agreed, it’s going to be very hard to improve now. We’re at a level in between a native speaker and someone still studying Spanish. We can only stay the same, or spiral downward…

My week here has been going rather well in Mexico until I thought about returning home. I returned from a beautiful island on Monday with some really great people. And on Tuesday, I led an amazing discussion in my anthropology class about differences between indigenous societies in Mexico and the United States in mainstream culture. My teacher was so impressed with me and to be honest, I was really impressed with myself. Ive decided to use my discussion as a focus point for my essay on international relations… something which I need to start working on….

And yesterday, it arrived: My Wolverine Access date. Seeing the date on the internet, I was kicked back into reality. I´m headed back to reality (its like that Eminem song)… I thought about classes, about the turmoils of scheduling, about Mschedule.com, and ratemyprofessors.com, and the like…and I thought about snow….

And I began thinking about Michigan, if I really missed the school or not, and about my experience abroad, and how I plan to make the most of my experience in the remaining two months or so….

And so for the time being, I think I’ll just ´´defy gravity´´ a bit more…although Im well aware what awaits for me when I return….

Posted by jlsumich at 07:13 PM | Comments (0)

March 20, 2007

Stay for a While: Dave Matthews Band (Isla Holbox)

Well we were walking
Just the other day

It was so hot outside
You could fry an egg

Wasting time
Let the hours roll by
Doing nothing for the fun

Little taste of the good life
Whether right or wrong

Makes us want to stay, stay, stay
For awhile
Later on the sun began to fade

Then the clouds rolled over our heads
And it began to rain

From good day into a moonlight
Now a night so fine
Makes us wanna stay, stay, stay, stay for awhile

Wasting time
I shall miss these things

When it all rolls by

What a day

Wanna stay, stay, stay, stay for awhile

Posted by jlsumich at 03:17 PM | Comments (0)

March 18, 2007

If it’s a Global World, then why can’t I Be Chicano?

“It’s a global world,” my Time Magazine tells me—the only magazine I’ve brought with me to read.

A global world, eh? Then if it’s truly a global world, where everyone interacts with everyone else, whose to say that I can’t be Chicano, too?

Erich tells me that I should just be myself and Rosa uh-hums him in the background.

But, the fact is, if everyone (or, if a large number of people on the island, at least) think that I’m a Chicano, who’s to say that I can’t be? After all (without considering the biology of it all), what’s a Chicano anyway? Someone that feels a strong connection to Mexico? Someone that appreciates Mexican culture and diversity—a Mexico Profundo? Someone that has family with a strong past to this pais?

Does a Chicano even have to speak Spanish?

I think not. In fact, I know not.

And the fact is, there are many types of Chicanos, just as there are all types of Mexicans:

There are green eyed Mexicans. The rich blond Mexicans. The Mexicans with the faces of Arab shieks. The Jewish Mexicans. The Big-footed-as-German-Mexicans. The Leftover French Mexicans. The chaparrito-compact Mexicans. The Taramuhara-tall-as-a-desert-saguaro Mexicans. The Mediterranean Mexicans. The Mexicans with Tunisian eyebrows. The negrito Mexicans with double coasts. The Chinese Mexicans, and the Korean ones too. The curly-haired, freckled face, red-headed Mexicans. The jaguar-lipped Mexicans. The wide-as-a-Tula tree Zapotec Mexicans. The Lebanese Mexicans.

“Look,” I say to the two of them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about when you say I don’t look Chicano. After all,” I say, “it’s only a name.”

And what’s in a name anyway?

During the morning, we went kayaking on the open ocean water. It was fun and incredibly difficult. Although after the first half-hour, I got incredibly sea-sick and ended up vomiting off the side of the kayak. I waited for the two of them back at the shore, taking some pictures.

Later in the day, we made our way to the beach again. I brought my homework to do—my essays on Mexico Profundo and passed the time in the sun.

The island really is an interesting place. And I’m not just talking about our personal experiences here.

A woman from the island that we met told us that we should walk the island to see the remnants and destruction left by hurricane Wilma within the year or two.

So, I made an effort to go walking the island. I walked on the Northern shore from the Western side to the Eastern side, andando and mirando.

Broken houses. Broken homes. Windows cracked on the sand. Garbage melting in the sun. Cement bricks—here, there. A pool that looked like it had been bombed a thousand bombs and a stairwell rising to nowhere. Maybe it was the stairway to heaven.

These are just some of the sights that I saw.

The destruction of Isla Holbox made me wonder about the type of federal disaster emergency system might have—or even if they have one at all.

Meeting the kind of helpful people on the island, I wondered how hard it was, or how hard it continues to be, for them to rebuild their lives.

Has paradise been paved? Or has it been left to decapitate in the brutal Mexican sun?

I don’t know, I’m not sure.

But I prayed for them, silently.

Posted by jlsumich at 12:47 PM | Comments (0)

March 17, 2007

They Paved Paradise and Put Up a Parking Lot

Let me set the scene for you: Erich’s to my left, hidden under his pillow and fighting with me in his sleep for who will get the blanket. He’s rolling over towards me, slowly… closer… with his fingers feeling for the blanket line. Meanwhile, Rosa (whose real name is Genevieve) is dangling over us in her pink hammock, like a Mayan trapeze artist of sorts. Back and forth, back and forth she goes… Now, let me tell you how we got to this point.

On Thursday night, I left Merida to go to Isla Holbox, an island on the northern side of the Yucatan Peninsula. Erich and I planned the trip rather late, and only because of our puente (the Mexican term for an extended weekend) at school. We both had really wanted to go, so we thought that we should jump in on the opportunity.

10:30 pm: I find myself sitting in front of the Envy nightclub, down the block, waiting for Erich and his host mom to pick me up. My host family doesn’t drive at night. Erich reiterates that he has invited Rosa, another girl from his program to join us. She was having problems finding people to travel with and would ultimately end up defraying the cost of our hotel expenses. And being the good people that we are, we didn’t want her missing out of an opportunity to travel.

I hop into Erich’s mother’s Brady Bunch/Partridge Family bus-van, only to find myself having slight flashbacks of my family’s own long “van history”; we make our way to the ADO Central Bus Terminal where we meet up with Rosa.

“No problema,” his mother tells us. I can hear Dona Sarita’s words in my mind as well: “No hay un problema. No hay nadie en la isla; no te preocupes hijo.” Okay, I think to myself. When they call me hijo, I know they are really serious and that I shouldn’t worry. I know that I will have no problem finding a hotel room on the island without a reservation. After all, Gabby tells me that she vacationed to Isla Holbox nearly 10 years ago for her luna de mile and she didn’t even see any other form of life on the island. No problem, no problem. I say the words over and over but more and more I continue to worry like a Stern.

“Chiquila…Chiquila…” The woman is calling the city over and over into the microphone to the ten people that seem to be waiting in the bus terminal late at night. “That’s our stop,” I say. We need to take the bus from Merida to Chiquila and then hop on a ferry to Isla Holbox. “Not a problem,” I thought. With Erich’s guidebooks, my keen traveling skills, and Rosa’s--- well, with Rosa, I guess--- I felt comfortable making the voyage.

We hop on the bus. I start thinking of my experience last year, when I took a bus during Spring Break from Brandeis University to NYC after visiting my good friend at his school. Runaways, drifters—any of those here? I didn’t see any. Only some tourists in the front and some Mexicans scattered throughout the back of the bus.

Erich and Rosa fell asleep—I was on my own. She’s got her blanket and he’s got his “prissy” little pillow (no, it’s really not prissy, I just kept saying that) and me—well, I’ve got my IPOD.
45 minutes and the bus stops. The driver tries to evict and Mexican from the bus. I wondered what he was doing, what had happened. Did he not pay? Was he a wanted man? Was he masturbating in public like those drifters that ride the bus and go back and forth between Merida and Progresso? The drifters that are probably leading free lives in Mexico as child predators and rapists?

He doesn’t get off the bus. He refuses to. Until the second pit stop.

We continue on. People hopping off, people hopping on. And from what I can see, they’re hopping on from the middle of nowhere. I look out the window. Just trees and dirt. Where do these people come from? Where do they live? Are they homeless? Abandoned? Poor?

We get to Chiquila at about 5:30 in the morning after all of the stops. By the end, its just the three of us and two couples of tourists. We all wait on the dock together, watching the sun rise and waiting to board the ferry to Isla Holbox.

“Where are you from?” I asked. I could tell they looked a little bit more confused than many of the American tourists that I’ve seen. “Germany,” says one couple. “Holland,” says the other. How cool, I thought, to be traveling with two couples (who, I ultimately found out later did not know each other) from Europe. As Rosa and Erich were taking pictures, I started talking to them.

“Where did you learn your English? What’s Europe like? It is cold? I have a friend studying there from Michigan, you know…What made you come to Yucatan? To Quintana Roo? How long will you be here for?”

“I’m German,” I chime in with a wide smile. “I know I don’t look it. People tell me I look Chicano or Italian or Puerto Rican, but I really am German,” I say. “Look,” I say, as I point to the dark sky. “Ein Klein Nachtmusik.” I start spewing out all the German words I know—any of the words that I’ve heard my grandparents say over and over again since I was a little boy.

After talking with them for a while, I decided it was time to move on. I walked to the front of the barcito and climbed into the little navigation area where the captain was. “Dime,” I said. “Tell me. Is the legend about Holbox really true? Was this island really once home to Pirates of the Caribbean? Was it once home to drug warlords?”

I was repeating everything that I had heard from Carla, a Mexicana friend from my Literatura Caribena class had told me just before I left. “Es la verdad?” I questioned. “Hijo,” he started. (Uh-oh, there was that “hijo” again) “Hay drogas en todos lados de Mexico.” He then asked me why I spoke Spanish bastante bien and I told him that my father had graduated from the Universidad de Guadalajara. “ Eres Chicano?” he asked me. I replied in the affirmative, only hoping to get more substantial, credible tips about what to do and where to stay on the island.

After all: a Mexican and Chicano are like family, right? And who’s to say that I really wasn’t Chicano? Mexicans come in all shapes, sizes, and skin tones just like the people of the United States. But he really didn’t give me any more information. He just kept laughing on and on about the legend that I had questioned him about…

So okay, we’re finally on the island.

“I think we should look for a hotel now,” I suggest. “Just to be sure that we have a room.” Erich was originally thinking about waiting until midday. But my way won out. We made our way to the hotel. “No hay espacio,” they told us. What?! My host mother’s words kept ringing through my head: “No hay problema.” You will have no problem. No problem. That good old Stern nervousness was now kicking in more than ever before. “Maybe we should split up,” I suggest. And that’s exactly what the three of us did.

One “lo siento” after another made me sick. What was the problem? Why was everything filled? Were we really at Isla Holbox and not Cancun? I decided to seek help from a taxi-cab driver, riding a golf-cart in the sand.

“Need a room?” he asked. I nodded and hopped in. We drove up and down the beach, begging with each of the dueños of each hotel to give us a room. But there was noting. “Where did you lean your English from?” I asked. “Germany,” he told me. What’s with all these people that I was meeting from Germany? And what was with all of the hotels and built up areas? Why wasn’t the island desolate like my mother had told me? Had they paved paradise?

To make a long story short (and I mean a long story, short), Rosa ultimately ended up finding one room in a hotel in the Centro of the Island (off the beach by 2 blocks) for the three nights. The room was the size of my E. Quad single with one double bed and a hammock hook for a small, chico-sized hammock. It was after hearing of such arrangements that I knew our island adventure was going to be interesting…

Bueno, we moved in and made our way to the beach right away. We spent the first day hanging out, playing with my awesome Frisbee and boomerang that I had bought from Walmart. We also went walking and realized that most of the island (with the exception of the small hotel-strip) was really deserted and not built up at all.

And after taking our siesta that day, we all woke up and started talking…

And this is the part of the blog that I’m trying to emphasize here, so just listen up:

I guess that I just consider myself to be really lucky to be in the company of such smart, interesting, and well-spoken people. Erich and I spoke a lot about religion—he’s a devout, practicing Catholic like a good buddy of mine at Michigan. And like my friend at Michigan, I have the utmost respect for Erich. I was interested in hearing about his religious practice/ perception of religion here in Mexico and in turn, he was interested in hearing about my perception of religion/ experience as a Jew here in Mexico.

We spoke for a long time, just like we did last weekend when we were at Gran Plaza together; only this time, it was about religion.

What does it mean to be a Christian? A Catholic? What direction to be both see for the Cathoic church? What are its virtues and its shortcomings? What does it mean to be Jewish and what commonalities can be observed with Catholicism from its practice?

And after religion, we moved onto other topics: family, school, friends, life experiences, etc. Rosa chimed in as well at some points, but I couldn’t really tell if she was overwhelmed or not by the intensity of our conversation, the complexity of our ideas. So most of the time, she just listened.

I also knew that she was just listening because in some ways, she couldn’t offer any comments. I come from a very close family; we’ve done a lot together. And the same holds true with Erich. And both of our families (no matter how different or similar they might be) both have supported our studies in Mexico, which is something that really means a lot.

Rosa couldn’t say the same about her life. And to be honest, I guessed this from the very first time I spoke to her in the UADY. There’s a certain insecurity to Rosa—a certain vulnerability—that makes you wonder what kind of background she comes from. She opened up to a us a little bit about her family situation and about a few of her experiences, but the rest of the time, she just listened. And that’s okay. Hopefully one day, she’ll have plenty more to talk about.

Anyway, Erich and I spoke for three hours without moving. And those are the types of conversations that I’m really fortunate to have.

By nighttime, we were out on the beach yet again, watching the stars, and this time it was I who was doing a lot of the listening. The two of them showed me the constellations (something of which I don’t get to see or appreciate on a regular basis at home in New Jersey or at home in Michigan).

Sometimes, it’s nature’s wonders that really add to life’s enjoyment.

We walked the beach, together. Just the three of us. We watched the shooting stars. We felt our toes form the cold, wet sand. And we were happy.

And so this morning, Saturday, I’m writing this entry in bed by hand (later to be transferred to computer). I sit in bed waiting patiently for my friends to wake up so we can start a new day again.

Erich’s to my left, hidden under his pillow and fighting with me in his sleep for who will get the blanket. He’s rolling over towards me, slowly…closer… his fingers feeling for the blanket line. Meanwhile, Rosa (whose real name is Genevieve) is dangling over us in her pink hammock, like a Mayan trapeze artist of sorts. Back and forth, back and forth she goes…

And now you know how we got to this point.

Posted by jlsumich at 10:42 PM | Comments (0)

March 15, 2007

Untitled

I was thinking about naming this entry “The Smoky Man” and writing about my bus ride home the other day—how the bus driver smoked his cigarettes: one, two, four, ten—one after another without caring about anyone else’s health or bus ride experience. And how the smoke lingered and swayed back and forth. Back and forth like an old ship traversing murky water. Back and forth, as he drove on and on and on. And then I realized: he’ll probably just end up driving himself right to Death one day.

And then how will I get home?

I was thinking about naming this entry “Weekend Plans” and writing about my upcoming trip to Holbox Island. I had my facts ready, I have my food ready, but I need sometime to get myself ready.

I’m sure you know how to use Google or Wikipedia if you need to.

I was thinking about naming this entry “Miss Piggy” and sharing how my class was disturbed the other day in the UADY by Mexican students holding piggy-banks, asking for us to donate money for those ignorant, selfish Mexican students that disrespectfully and inexcusably destroyed the Centro yesterday. They claimed their actions were a mistake and they just wanted to make a statement to Bush. That’s what sent them to jail. That’s why they need money for bail. I claim that their story just doesn’t make sense. I think to myself, “Well, at least they’re not alone in the slammer.”

I wonder if Mexican jails have air conditioning. I hope for their sake that there’s not.

Again I find myself believing that the whole thing really is just bullshit. Or, as Dra. Shrimpton would say in her explosively obvious British accent, “It’s hogwash.”

I was thinking about naming this entry “Profundo” and sharing with you the details of a major project that I’ve been working on for my antropologia class. The book I’m reading, you see, is named “Mexico Profundo”. But for the book to actually be profound, you actually have to read it and be here with me.

But you’re not, so I think I’ll pass again.

I was thinking about naming this entry “Mexican Baby” to share with you the news of Gabby’s baby shower, or “Otro Dia” to share with you song lyrics from Jon Secada, or “Mole” or “Marzo”, “Papeleria” or “Oxo”. Or I might have called it “Registration” just because that’s what seems to be on my mind now.

When’s my date Wolverine Access?

So I’m thinking that my thinking wasn’t about anything substantial to write a whole entry on.

And since thinking never hurt anyone, I think that I’ll just think some more…

Posted by jlsumich at 11:53 AM | Comments (0)

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...

Monologos de la Vagina, pictures

Creative Writing Show, Colegio Americano-- pictures

The WINNERS of the Contest!

Kanasin, Maria Jose´s pueblo

Posted by jlsumich at 04:45 PM | Comments (0)

March 10, 2007

Monólogos de la Vagina: The End.

Thursday night, I found myself sitting in the park wtth Tatiana practicing English yet again. It’s amazing how some people here have made such an effort to study English—reading English books, magazines, watching English television shows, etc. Like the kids in el Colegio Americana, for instance, where I teach. They have certainly made a lot of progress studying English and it fun to get the chance to judge their Creative Writing Show yesterday and hear the stories that they spent time working on.

But on the flip aide, I understand that most people don’t have the opportunity or the right resources to do this…

We spoke about school (I found out that she’s leaving the UADY next year to go to a better school), we spoke about family, about laws and rules here in Yucatan, and about her studying English. “Why are you studying English?” I asked. “I want to live in Canada,” she said. “and be a journalist.” I thought that this was a particularly interesting answer, considering I hadn’t heard a response like this before from other people. Hmm…a journalist living in Canada. She certainly has taken the first big step to make it happen—and I’d be interested in seeing where she goes from here.

We spoke about the UADY--- about the fact that many of the teachers don’t teach like they should or they could. And she made a valid point. The students of Mexico pay a lot of money to attend school here (you must understand that everything is comparative—to us in the United States, education is a lot of money and to Mexicans living here, it’s just the same way) and they deserve to have the best possible education afforded to them. Many of the teachers (and luckily not mine), simply sit back without commenting in class at all. They dump all of the work onto the “brains” of the class, pretending to award extra points, and promising less essays, tests, etc, in return for one student taking charge of the class…

Last night, (Friday) I went to see the Monólogos de la Vagina with other students from my Antropologia Mexicana class—Carla, Dianela, Fernando, and Rosalio. I figured it was a good opportunity to show my support for UADY students, since they have given so much to me in return. And, I knew three of the girls in the cast--- Maria Jose, Alejandra, and Claudette.

The show was excellent, excellent, excellent, and what was even better was that I was able to understand almost everything that they were saying. Sometimes, when I found myself unsure of a word, I listened to the entire sentence and the context to figure out what was being said. I really enjoyed the production—the cast worked very hard—and it definitely opened my eyes up to the talent of UADY students.

On my way out, I got to see just how packed the auditorium was (we went to the early 6:30 pm showing—the other one started at 8:30). And, as we walked onto the street, we saw the line for the late show wrap around the corner, past the UADY Central building. Dr. Shrimpton was there, among others.

To top the evening off, we ate at the Park of Santa Anna (where I brought my parents twice or three times). We ordered tortas and dessert for all, and Carla and I got a pineapple drink in a gigantic goblet.

When we first got there, there was a big demonstracion against President Bush and the group asked me if I had any intention of participating. Being the only extranjero, I was a little bit hesitant to explain my personal political beliefs, or just my beliefs in general. But, I couldn’t just hold out and not say anything.

I told them the following: Although I might not believe in our president to the highest extent—although I understand that he has made mistakes during his terms in office— he’s still my president. And my president is a representation of my country, of my culture, of my upbringing, of my life. I would find myself disgracing my own country, my own people if I were to participate in a demonstration as such, which would be especially visible in a foreign country.

What kind of message would I send to the people of Mexico if I were to hold up a sign in English that read “DEATH to PRESIDENT, DOWN with AMERICA”? What would that accomplish? I feel like demonstrations in this manner are nothing but a waste of space and really shed light on a lack of character. There are many, many more productive, morally and logically decent ways of voicing a personal opinion. They could be writing letters to their governments, to their newspapers, to television stations.

But holding up burning American flags? This kind of demonstration bears no weight to it. It only sends messages of hate and a lack of maturity—a lack of understanding.

And I find it hard to believe how these people could be holding up signs in English when they don’t even understand what they mean.

I don’t know why I’m rambling on about this. I was just really not comfortable last night and found myself in a situation difficult to explain.

I’m sorry if I’m not going to protest my president and my country. I just won’t.

The end.

Posted by jlsumich at 12:09 PM | Comments (0)

March 08, 2007

Yucatán—mi compromiso; tu gente, mi pasión

Yucatán—mi compromiso; tu gente, mi pasión.

The signs are everywhere. The election is all staged. It’s Ivonne, everybody’s red-haired, lovable PRI candidate vs. Xavier, the bald-headed, “Dr. Phil” PAN candidate. “Van a ganar conmigo,” he claims, with the point of a finger that seems to be photo-shopped and cropped abnormally large. But will the people really win with him? Buses are showing their faces. Coca cans have their faces plastered around the ingredients tab. It’s bound to be an interesting few weeks…

Sunday was a great day… the church deemed it “family day”, a way to get families to unite and come together for services. So being that I am living here and take up space in the house, I went with my family to share in the moment. My roommate chose otherwise. And Sunday ended (with great sadness) the weekend.

I have had so much work to do this week—papers, reseñas, and the first bits of my exposiciones for the upcoming weeks. I’m also trying to get ahead a bit, so I don’t have to worry about a lot of work while I’m away over the Semana Santa break…

This week also brought introductions to new foods. First of all, I was taught the Yucatecan way (supposedly Yucatecan, although I tend to think otherwise) to eat a mango—by spooning the fruit out like ice cream… I’ve had some trouble with it on the initial attempts, but now I seem to be getting it more and more. At least we’re not eating papaya anymore… The papaya phase is good and done with. Now we’re down to mangoes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

And in turn, I introduced the family to S’mores. Julio came over and we lit a fire and made the Yucatecan version of smores; they don’t have graham crackers here, so we substituted with a flat, dry cookie. It was a lot of fun and I think everyone enjoyed it.

And last night, we at sopa, a pita-like tortilla with beans, cheese, and tomato sauce. It was really good….

In other news, President Bush arrives next Monday to Merida and will be staying in El Centro (very close to where I live—walkable distance). And his arrival couldn’t have generated more demonstrations, protests, and chaos. Every night, there have been LARGE protests in the center—the city is merely covered with signs that say “assassinate Bush”, “World Killer”, “Demonic Soul”, etc.

While I don’t necessarily endorse our president at the highest level, he is my president—our president— and I feel as if it’s my duty as an American citizen to be respectful of his work at all times.

And I’m not necessarily sure that I support people of another nation holding protests at such great levels. First of all, you should understand that I can’t walk in the Centro anymore. I can’t be seen anywhere near a protest because it is very, very illegal for people that are not nationals to participate in government-related events. Hence, if I was caught in the midst of a crowd (merely passing by), I would be thrown in jail for years.

But the fact is, I don’t necessarily agree with the fact that Mexicans are protesting his arrival. I understand Mexican’s view of Bush’s immigration policy. And I understand that they don’t support the War in Iraq. But the fact is, this country’s economy is dependent upon the United States. The US has made a great imprint in the lives of citizens here and has affected virtually every aspect of daily life—Walmart, clothing, music, CNN television (among other channels), appliances, cars, etc. I find it hard to believe that Mexicans don’t recognize—or rather, that they choose to overlook-- their strong ties to the United States, simply for the sake of claiming 5 shining minutes in public, creating noise and spewing dirty language.

I don’t agree with it at all. I think their demonstrations are a waste of space and are really shedding a bad image of the people of this great city. But who am I to talk? I’m just an American visiting…

As far as the rest of the week, things are looking on the bright side… Tonight I have English conversation hours with Tatiana again in a parque. It was a lot of fun last week—we went to an Oxxo and just bought some snacks and started talking a lot about life in general…

I think it’s amazing how she (as well as other students that I’ve met in the UADY), have become so strongly devoted to studying English. She was telling me that the reason she is studying is to live in Canada eventually… I thought it was really interesting and great how she’s trying to turn such a dream into a realization.

So, tonight we will continue with English.

Friday, I will be judging the first ever “Creative Writing Show” at the Colegio Americano where I also teach English. The students have been busy preparing their essays on a pre-chosen image. Tomorrow, they will share their stories in front of the entire grade in an auditorium, where I’ll get to play Simon Cowell. I’m looking forward to it…

And this weekend is looking promising as well. I’m hoping to get to the beach on Sunday and back in time to do some reading. And on Sunday, Maria Jose has invited Erich and I for lunch at her house in a small, poor pueblo. I will be conducting interviews for my independent study while I’m there. I have my question sheets already printed out – questions about the Mayans and Yucatecen relations with “outsiders”—or extranjeros.

I’m really looking forward to it….

Posted by jlsumich at 10:46 AM | Comments (0)

March 05, 2007

Andando: Diego Torres

Andando, por la vida mirando Que por una canción se puede aun morir de amor Y asi saber que tu voz llegara a mi pobre corazón que ahi va.

Andando, por la vida mirando
Que a veces lo que dicen no es igual a lo que harán
Y asi algo tendra que cambiar en este mundo desigual

Creo aun en la voz de las personas con buen corazon

Porque se que no soy el mejor,
Tampoco el peor...
Tan solo soy lo que soy, y es asi...
No quiero fingir,
No voy a mentir...
Tan solo soy lo que soy y es asi

Andando, por la vida mirando
Buscando lo mas simple que es por donde hay que empezar
Y asi tratar de llegar a los demas sin importar que hay detras

Andando, por la vida mirando
La gente que se pierde de tanto buscar y andar.
Y asi son muchas vidas que vienen y van y me pregunto donde iran

Creo aun en la voz de las personas con buen corazon

Porque se que no soy el mejor,
Tampoco el peor...
Tan solo soy lo que soy, y es asi...
No quiero fingir,
No voy a mentir...
Tan solo soy lo que soy y es asi (x2)

Unos se van yendo, otros van llegando
Unos van corriendo y otros cruzan caminando
Unos van riendo, otros van sufriendo
Eso es lo que miro cuando siempre voy andando

Quiero imaginar un mundo nuevo
Donde el frio acompañe mi andar
Y el amor sera en el invierno el abrigo que me puede salvar

Porque se que no soy el mejor,
Tampoco el peor...
Tan solo soy lo que soy, y es asi...
No quiero fingir,
No voy a mentir...
Tan solo soy lo que soy y es asi

Andando, por la vida mirando
Que a veces lo que dicen no es igual a lo que haran
Andando...

Posted by jlsumich at 05:14 PM | Comments (0)

Balls and Chains

Balls and chains. Balls and chains. I just can’t help but think about Daniel’s words in the car on the way to Chichen Itza on Saturday.

“We’re all just balled and chained,” he said, referring to our relation with life back home. He looked at Melissa and me, as we rode three extranjeros side-by-side in the back of Eugenia’s Toyota mini-van. “It’s true, you know.”

Although I think Daniel was referring to things in specific (actually I know he was), I just started thinking about his words.

Balls and chains. Am I really tied up?

To anyone? To anything? To anywhere?

I hope not. At least, not yet.

And what about to myself?

Posted by jlsumich at 01:20 PM | Comments (0)

March 04, 2007

Más Sobre Mi Excursión a Chichen Itza (Otra Vez), Eugenia, y Yhajaira

Si no leíste la última “update” que yo puse en mi página de la red el sábado, léela. Entonces, para continuar donde le dejé, yo fui otra vez el sábado durante todo el día a Chichen Itza. Pasé el día con me clase de antropología mexicana, mi maestra Eugenia, y arqueólogo muy conocido en todos lados de México. Me levanté a las cinco y media de la mañana para ser listo y nosotros nos reunimos a la facultad de antropología a las siete y media a punto. Tomé el paseo con dos otros extranjeros, Daniel y Melissa y dos mexicanos de la clase en el coche de la maestra y debo decir que me cae muy bien con ella. Ella es una de las maestras más amables que he conocido de este punto en mis estudios en la escuela, y es decir que ella es la maestra que me enseña mejor en la facultad. Y en la clase de ella, nosotros cubrimos más información que las otras clases juntas.

Aunque fue me tercera vez a Chichen, cada vez, me aparece que yo aprendo más sobre el sitio. Como ya expliqué, en Chichen Itza, se concentro el poderío itza, razón por lo que este centro militar, político, comercial, y religioso experimento una transformación grandioso que lo llevo a su florecimiento. Las ideas que introdujeron los grupos toltecas se reflejaron en el arte y en la arquitectura. Como ejemplo se pueden señalar la construcción del imponente edificio de El Castillo (que todavía no pude subir), el grupo de las Mil Columnas y el Gran Juego de Pelota, las representaciones del tigre caminando y almenas en forma de caracol como en otros sitios, columnas con serpientes erguidas, bajorrelieves que representan guerreros toltecas, murales con escenas de guerreros navegando frente a poblados costeros, tableros con figuras humanas enmascaradas y animales en actitud de comer corazones humanos.

It was so great to walk around with my fellow classmates and my teacher, who was so happy to take pictures with us and introduce Chichen to all of the extranjeros. And although it was brutally hot out and I was getting burned over my already sunburned skin (from going to the Hyatt), I was excited to continue walking around and listening to what she and the archaeologist had to say.

While I was there, I also started talking to Yahaijara a little bit about some of the other sites in Yucatan. When we first arrived, she was SO upset because she ended up arriving late in Marianna’s 40 year-old boyfriend’s car. (Yes, that’s right, Marianna a girl in my class is dating a 40 year old man). Anyway, his car broke down and she had to go with them because there wasn’t enough room in the bus when we originally left the facultad. She ended up sitting at a gas station with them, waiting for a mechanic to fix the car, and by the time she came to Chichen Itza, she was in a terrible mood. And rightly so.

But enough about getting to Chichen. While we were there, we talked a bit and she told me about some other great places to see… Hopefully I can take at least another weekend trip or two before I leave…

Speaking of which, I’m really excited about my trip during Semana Santa that I will be taking with Erich. We’re going to Chiapas for a week—half the time to Palenque, the other half the time to San Cristobal de las Casas. And to make things even more cool, there will be a National Soccer Game in Chiapas while we’re there and we’re going to try to get tickets to see it. Soccer is a huge part of the Mexican culture and I think it’s going to be a really great experience. We’re only a month away…

After Chichen Itza, we all went to a little restaurant for some Poc-chuuc and cocas. Eugenia was asking all of the extranjeros about our experiences thus far, where we come from in the United States, etc. And then, we got to learn a little bit about our maestra.

She told us how she is able to relate to our experience very well; she lived in Chicago for a year when she was a little girl, because her parent’s company sent them there for business. She explained to us how much she can identify with culture shock and learning a new language, learning to make new friends and trying new foods, and most of all traveling to see different sites. It’s funny that she told us about her own adventures—to be quite honest, I had a small inkling when I sat in on the first class that she spoke English very well and that she somehow knew a lot about the United States. Finally, after two months we found out why.

And then we asked her how she likes Yucatan and why she moved here from her original home, the DF. Interestingly enough, when her son was about three years old, he suffered from a chronic breathing problem. Apparently, she took him to many, many specialists in the DF and they all suggested that she move away to another location to avoid the heavy pollution. Taking the advice of the physicians, she and her family moved to Yucatan 9 years ago and have been here ever since. And to this day, her son hasn’t had breathing problems—though he still suffers chronic bronchitis and other ailments when he goes back to the DF to visit family.

She told us that the move was hard because people from the DF (and people from other states in general) are not well received by Yucatecans. And I whole-heartedly believe her. Yucatecans have a strong sense of state pride; they refer to themselves as Yucatecans before anything else and they have a strong connection to their propia cultura. She told us how she’s been chastised many times for forgetting to use colloquial words or for not remembering directions to certain spots around Merida. I was really interested to hear a Mexicana’s take on what it’s like to first arrive in Merida and live here. Because some of the struggles she described having upon her first arrival I too can identify with.

We all had such a good time that we’ve planned another trip to Ek Balam for April 28th, after Semana Santa.

And lastly, in other news, my roommate let me know that’s become preoccupied (worried, that is) about his eyeballs and his gums. While certainly his complaints were some of the strangest things that I’ve ever heard, I must admit that at least he spoke to me with some inflection in his voice. And, he kept talking for more than he’s ever have about these “treacherous ailments” that he claims to suffer from. And oh, did I forget to mention the other news? He’s gone back to being a full-time meat eater for the 9282728289272th time.

Let’s see what tomorrow brings….

MAESTRA EUGENIA (LEFT) AND OTROS AMIGOS FROM MY ANTRO. CLASS

ME AND ERICH

DEANELLA, CARLA, YHJAIRA, ERICH, AARON, Y YO

MAESTRA EUGENIA AND DEANELLA

MELISSA Y MOLLY FROM THE BUTLER PROGRAM

ME AND YHAJAIRA IN FRONT OF EL OBSERVATORIO

ERICH, DEANELLA, MELISSA, AND YHAJAIRA

EXTRANJEROS WITH THE MAESTRA

WITH DEDIERE AND MOLLY IN THE PUEBLO

ANOTHER WOLVERINE FAN LIVING IN MEXICO... SHE WAS SHOCKED...

Posted by jlsumich at 03:40 PM | Comments (0)

March 03, 2007

Cuentos del Hyatt, un Policía Sordo, y La Película de Mi Vida

Things have been going really well all and it´s hard to believe that we´re already into March. Wow how the time passes! It´s amazing to think of all the great things that I´ve had the opportunity to do and even more amazing to think I haven´t even been here for half of the time yet!

This week, I discovered the great secret of going to the Hyatt hotel, one of the nicest hotels in Merida, to use the pool. I know, I know what you´re thinking. How could I use the pool if I´m not a guest there? But, using my cunning skills and sharp thinking, I passed as a tourist every single day this week. It´s been really hot the last few days, so I decided that it would be una buena oportunidad to cool off a bit. Every day, I wore my most touristy looking t-shirts, shorts, and I carried my camera with me. I entered directly though the front door, and took the elevators to the rooftop, where the pool is located. On Wed., someone happened to question me and I told him that I was staying on the fifth floor. But nothing actually happened as a result.

Last night, I went over to Erich´s house to watch a movie which I have now claimed to be the story of my life. But before I tell you about the movie, let me recount the events of last night.

So Erich invited me over to his house and while I appreciate the invitation, I wasn’t really thrilled about going. Traveling north here in Merida on the buses is especially difficult and often, I end up waiting for buses more than anything else. But I took him up on the offer. I went to the Walmart and stood there waiting for a North’bound bus to arrive. The first one passed me. Then, about twenty minutes later, I saw the second one approaching. But just as it neared, a horse-carriage driver pulled up in front of me by the sidewalk and started offering me a discount for his horse and carriage ride. He definitely thought I was a tourist and began bargaining desperately so that I would agree to take a ride. Because I couldn’t get rid of him, the second bus passed. It had no room to pull up in front of me because the horse was there.

Finally, I ended up taking the third bus but before I paid, I questioned the driver about 5 times if he was headed towards the Costco (which Erich lives near). And he told me 5 times with certainty that indeed, he was heading towards the Costco. But despite the conviction that he showed, he of course was lying to me. I ended up taking a bus all the way north to Grand Plaza.

Once I arrived at Grand Plaza, I wanted to call Erich for directions to walk to his house. But of course, I was out of minutes on my cell phone. So, I asked a cop for directions. Little did I know that the cop was deaf and that his hand gestures were sign language--- not crazy spasms. ¨Senor,¨ I said. ¨¿Porque no me contestas?¨ And I kept repeating myself over and over again, getting more and more frustrated because I didn’t realize that he was actually deaf. So, I ended up walking to an Oxxo and buying a phone card. I called Erich from the Oxxo and just as I started to head towards his house, it started to pour.

At Erich´s house, we watched a movie that his elizabeth, Deanna, had apparently shown to the Butler group during their orientation. The movie, LAuberge Espagnole, was a French film, about a student in France that decides to study abroad in Spain for a year. The student comes to love the culture, the sites that he visits, and practically everything about the experience. And along the way, he ends up learning a lot about himself and the type of culture that he comes from. I just really felt like I could identify with the main character, And what was even more cool was that the movie was half in French and half in Spanish. So, I was able to follow along a little bit with the French and obviously very well with the Spanish.

As main character, Xavier, notes about his own study abroad experience, ¨ When you first arrive in a new city, nothing makes sense. Everythings unknown, virgin... After you've lived here, walked these streets, you'll know them inside out. You'll know these people. Once you've lived here, crossed this street 10, 20, 1000 times... it'll belong to you because you've lived there. That was about to happen to me, but I didn't know it yet.¨

And I feel the same way. Two months into my study abroad experience, everything is coming together more and more. I´m starting to see the same people over and over; I´m getting to know the same sidewalks, the same tiendas, the same places to buy food, to buy drinks, to have a good time… And I guess I never expected that I would when I first came.

Today, I went to Chichen Itza with my Antropologia Mexicana maestro and class. More details to come, since this café is closing, but I had a great time.

Im going to leave you with another quote from the movie, since I enjoyed it so much:

´´I'm going to write. Everything seems simple and clear. I am not that. Nor that. But I'm all that. I am him, him, him... "I'm going to write books" I am her, her.. I am French, Spanish, English, Danish. I am not one but several. I am like Europe, I am all of that! I am a real mess! Now, I can start telling you everything. Everything started here when my plane took off. No, it's not about a take-off. Well actually, it's about a take-off. Everything started here.´´

Everything started here. Everything about my experience started right here with my own thoughts and my own words. So please, do keep reading.

Posted by jlsumich at 09:53 PM | Comments (0)