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April 30, 2007

The Men on Horses (or Malas Pesadillas II)

Date: Mon, 30 Apr 2007 11:34:09 -0400 (EDT) [11:34:09 AM EDT]
From: Jason L. Stern"
To: ____________@___.edu
Reply-To: ____________.edu
Subject: The Men on Horses (or Malas Pesadillas II)
Headers: Show All Headers

Dear _____(friend)____,

I find myself writing this letter you late in the middle of the night as I sit here in bed, after a long but well fought battle trying to go to sleep.

Today, like every day, was an experience here in Merida.

During the day, I went to the “Plaza del Toros” (the bull-fighting arena) here in Merida. Bull-fighting is a sport in Mexico just as it is in Spain; it’s more common, however, in the northern part of the country than it is here in the south, in Yucatan. When I bought my tickets last weekend, the man at the ticket office told mw nothing about there being bull-killing involved. While I am a meat-eater, I don’t find myself advocating the sport of bull-fighting nor any venue that severely jeopardizes or compromises the health or safety of an animal. So I bought tickets for what I thought was a “bull-fashion show”—that is, they told me that the bulls would be presented in the ring by their breeders and that there would be a traditional sort of Yucatecan dance done alongside the bulls. I bought three tickets: one for me and two for two of the girls, Rebecca and Molly in my Rutgers program.

After buying my tickets, going to the arena, and finding my seat, I finally got the truth. The show featured six bulls, all of a smaller size. At first, there was a sort of traditional dance that went on. But afterwards, men on horses came out and started spearing each of the bulls. People cheered, waving ribbons and flags, and it was one of the most sickening experiences I have ever witnessed in my entire life. How could you justify the death of an animal as a spectacle? The men on horses rode out with their lances, dressed in their Mexican uniforms and looked all tough. But I knew that deep down, in reality, the horse riders were probably cruel and unfortunate humans that couldn’t find something more morally righteous to do with their lives. They are probably nothing but cowards.

Every time that the bull was speared, I peered away into the crowd; I found myself looking at the Mexican flag, flying in the distance beyond the stadium. And when the final man came out—the man with the red, shiny cape—I just continued to stare down at the ground, because I knew that it was his job to ultimately put the animal to death for the sake of claiming the crowd’s round of applause. We left after the third bull was put down. And as we walked out of the stadium and down the winding ramp towards ground level, we came almost face to face with the other bulls, which were left as display until it was their turn to enter the ring and die. I stood there for a moment and became really sad, to be honest.

I thought of Dayna, one of my friends here, and the infinite joy we get out of befriending the stray dogs. I thought of the time we walked the beaches of Chabihau in the middle of the night, looking for stray dogs to feed them our spare food. I thought of my own dogs at home, which I miss tremendously. And I thought about human consciousness and what would have provoked someone to “design” this “sport” in the first place.

Let me also just remind you that eating meat at lunch or dinner is totally, one-hundred percent different than watching humans kill animals before a laughing, exhilarated, drunken crowd of Mexicans. It’s not “just like a baseball game” as Rebecca said, nor is it “just like if they slaughtered an animal for food” like Molly said. I paid to watch animals die and other people glory in those deaths.

And now, I cant sleep.

Posted by jlsumich at 11:52 AM | Comments (0)

April 28, 2007

Orquesta Sinfonica de Yucatan

A good friend from high school has told me time and time again that “change is an inherently good thing.” This is, as she says, her stance on life.

As the semester is coming to a close here at the UADY and my last days here in Yucatan are just around the corner, I’d like to take the time to reflect on my friend’s thought.

Last night, I met “the group”—Dayna, Will, Erich, Rachel, Frine and Monica, Suzanne and and Paul, and (I forgot the rest of their names) at El Hoyo, the most hopping café in Merida, where we had dinner.

I go to El Hoyo almost every day, where I do a lot of my blog-writing, email-writing, and AIM-chatting (not to mention homework).

Afterwards, we all went to see the Orquesta Sinfonica de Yucatan in the Teatro Peon Contreras in the Centro, although we all bought tickets in different tiers and in different booths: Erich and I were in the same booth on the third level as were Paul and Will (but their booth was on the opposite side of the theater), and Rachel and Dayna got seats on ground floor. I really enjoyed going to the concert, as it was a good opportunity to hear the symphonies of Beethoven, Mozart, and Liszt played by a professional orchestra in a very large and impressive concert hall.

Erich and I spoke a little; he’ll be going home way before me on May 10th. And I couldn’t tell whether he was excited or disappointed to be leaving so early. We spoke about his host family situation here as well as the things he has to look forward to this summer back in the United States. It seems like his departure will be bittersweet.

And mine?

Well, there are some things that have certainly been getting to me here & going home will surely remedy those pet-peeves. I hate the fact that everyone is always late here, for instance. Or that it’s so hot that it’s uncomfortable to go outside.

But more than anything, my program (in every respect) has been getting to me a lot-- specifically, I'm talking about my conversations with the “others”. So much for that New Jersey pride that I had when I first came here…

And to be honest, there’s another thing: I feel as if I’ve had enough of the social aspect here in Merida (I’m talking about the school-social aspect). Every day I go into the UADY and I see the same kids, over and over again. And I see the same kids from the Rutgers and Butler programs, over and over again. And I’ve had enough of it.

While I will most definitely remember my education here in a positive light, I’m not that fond of the social-atmosphere that the school has to offer. Every day, I run into the same kids—just like high school. That’s why in some respects, I miss Michigan. I like not having to see the same kids every single day.

Also, looking back over the semester, I feel like I’ve invested a lot of time getting to know other students—extranjeros and mexicanos; I know about their families, their problems, their goals, etc. Maybe that’s because I’m (as they say) easily approachable and people like coming to talk to me. And I’ve learned a lot about some students, sometimes in a negative way—by what they’ve done, by how they’ve presented themselves, and by what they’ve said.

But on the flip side, I’m not so sure that many people have invested the time to get to know me—to get to know about my goals, or about where I come from or about my position on some topics.

(I’m not sure why or why not this is important, but these are just some thoughts that were rolling around in my head as I was in the theater.)

When it comes down to it all: who really have I had deep conversations with? When I leave Mexico, who can I consider to be a “friend”? Will I keep in touch with anyone after this trip?

So, as I look forward towards the end of the semester and realize that in four weeks time, I’ll be headed home, I hear the words of my high school friend resounding in my ear: “change is an inherently good thing.”

Change IS an inherently good thing.

And I think it’s time for a change.

Posted by jlsumich at 12:21 PM | Comments (0)

April 27, 2007

Variations on a Mexican Folk Song

I’m writing this blog entry because I can’t concentrate enough to write my essay papers; Ben’s playing his trombone on roof and the sound is penetrating through the walls of this house. The arpeggios are sounding continuously—one after another without any end; here they come through the windows, moving towards my room and down the stairwell. Now and then the occasional “In the Hall of the Mountain King” is played or some jazz riff.

It’s 9 p.m. and the streets of Garcia Gineres were quiet.

The music of his trombone reminds me of a song we played in high school composed by John Barnes Chance: Variations on a Korean Folk Song, a song that I still listen to on my IPOD. Well, I suppose more than his music, it’s the fact that he’s playing in a foreign country that brings to mind the song. Variations on a Korean Folk Song begins with a traditional Korean folk melody line and places the phrase in different keys, sometimes played by different instruments, in different rhythms and styles.

Through the piece, images of nature come to mind—specific geographic spaces (like lakes, mountains, etc) as well as the changing of seasons. And sometimes, you get the impression that people are walking through forests. The music really seems to depict an image of Korea.

But tonight, we listen to the music of Benjamin. The same three tunes over and over. And arpeggios. What if he were to play a Mexican Folk Song? What would it sound like? What images would come to mind if there were such a piece?

Would the song start out slow or fast? Would it be a trova? Would it be a serenata? A cumbia? Would a Mexican folk song sound anything like Yucatan? Would it sound anything like Chiapas?

Would we be able to get a sense of the heat of the country? Or the poverty many of its people?

In the same way I consider this question, you might ask yourself: what would a newly-composed American folk song sound like? We’ve all heard American folk songs before, but do they really do justice to our country as we know it today? Can we really imagine the United States from listening to such songs today?

Posted by jlsumich at 09:52 AM | Comments (0)

April 26, 2007

Mensajes del Texto

(as they appeared on my phone this week)

ha. I heard u are already halfway through most of your essays.

elizabeth didn’t mention anything to US about individual meetings.

ella les manda saludos. Don’t worry si le caes bien quizas no t coma.

dude, I found two of your ensayos floating around the siglo XX carpeta. They were that good, eh?

Oye, no recuerdo si te dije, pero te veré al hoyo a 8:30, sale?

Yah, we’re going to el cielo, you know where it is? Try and be there around 10.

Buenas noticias: eres mi amigo oficialmente! Yay!

oh boy, I’ll be sure to be careful when I come home…

Hahaha, good, i can laugh bout it again, im reading lecturas del principio y still no tengo 3, mañ hablamos con maestro y estudiamos mier.

Lo siento, acabo d llegar a mi casa d la iglesia, a heider no le gusta q voy a vivir en una casa con perros y gatos, voy a empezr estad mañ, me faltan 3

heh, glad someone thinks as much. glad to hear ben has returned. hope your home situation has stabilized in gen.

you know you can text me and its cheaper.

hola, estoy playa, lo siento lo dejamos para la proxima semana. te parece? saludos.

Je entonces si es peligrosa vero. Mmmm comer gringos suena interesante.

bein that im not god i cant answer that question. u stranded?

Posted by jlsumich at 08:56 PM | Comments (0)

April 24, 2007

Malas Pesadillas

So I’ve been working like a dog because it’s the end of the semester and everything seems to be wrapping up all too quickly (just as it does in Michigan). I’ve written most of my essays now, which are in the hands of Tomas Ramon, my Literatura Latinoamericana maestro. He will be conferencing with me about my writing later on in the week.

Despite the fact that it’s the end of the semester, our classroom discussions have not come to a halt. Today in Antropologia Mexicana we had a great debate about the role of a minority culture in a Westernized society. Eugenia, our maestra, read to us an article posted in the Yucatan Diario in 2000, about a conflict between a Mayan and a Meridian:

A Mayan woman had been working as a cleaning lady in the house of a Meridian for four years. One day, while she was working, she stole money from the kitchen table of the house in which she was working. The Meridian woman noticed that her money was missing and called the police to come and arrest the Mayan. Upon their arrival and the questioning that followed, the Mayan woman claimed that it was a special holiday for the Mayans; it was a traditional custom to take money left in sight and exchange it for bread or other grocery items. She claimed that that’s exactly what she was going to do.

This raises the question: where do we draw the line between being acceptant of other people’s cultures and respecting the laws of a society. Clearly here in Merida, it’s illegal to steal money. But should the Meridian woman have called the police? If the Mayan woman claimed that she was unaware that stealing in Merida was illegal, should she be punished for her actions? Should she be punished for trying to carry out what her culture dictates?

In any event, we had this great debate in class today. It was interesting not only because it raised questions of cultural identity, but also because it raised questions of the judicial system in Mexico. And of course, I was fascinated listening to differences in court regulations/procedures. In fact, there is a current national proposal to hire “cultural interpreters” for the court room to stand alongside the “language interpreters”. Mexico is a country of many cultures—many of them very obscure and removed from mainstream society.

One of the counterarguments went as such: If a Mexican were to go to the United States and begin working, what should be done about it? What if the Mexican claims that he was unaware that you needed to become a citizen first before working? What if the Mexican claimed that in Mexico, the culture dictates that anyone is able to work in whatever sector they wish, and he was trying to practice is own cultural customs? From this, the “doors to the immigration debate” opened up.

I did quite a bit of talking in the debate – also to make some of the points in my international relations paper clear.

When I returned home, I ate a quick meal and then decided to take a siesta. I’ve been tired lately from all the work as well as the hot sun. Julito came up to my room and asked me why I was taking a siesta and why I was so tired. I didn’t know what to say, so I told him that I had “malas pesadillas” (bad dreams) the night before and that I didn’t sleep at all.

He asked me what I dreamed about and I told him that it had to do something with Batman chasing me.

Without warning, he got down in front of my hammock and told me he was going to give me a prayer-clinic and show me how to ask god for good dreams; clearly, as he told me (if I was having a bad dream about Batman), “Con Dios, no le caigo bien” (god doesn’t like me very much).

He showed me exactly what to do and I thanked him for his help and then, he disappeared downstairs. I thought about why I didn’t sleep well last night.

I went to the Vacqueria, I remember that. Well, first I went to El Hoyo, the café to do some work. Erich met me there and we went to the Vacqueria, a traditional show in the center of town. I like seeing the traditional shows—not only because they’re free—but because it’s an important and easy way to see what Meridian culture is really like. The woman in their ipils and the men in their traditional playeras went dancing around the centro; they did 6 step dances and 8 step dances, some with water bottles twirling around on their heads and woman twirling around baskets of flowers… it was nice to see…

And I think when I got home, I just thought a lot about the end of the semester. Things have been pretty quiet here; everyone’s working to finish up their essays/projects/exams. And what’s going to happen afterwards? Everybody will be headed their own way… I thought about the great Mexican friends that I made—Carla, Deanella, Fernando, MaJo and others. Will I ever speak to them again? And I thought a lot about the students in the other program that I’ve come to befriend—Erich, Will, Dayna, Louisa, Melissa, Molly, Rachael, Matt and Alec.

Thinking about their program, I was left really bitter about my own program—especially after some of the uncomfortable meetings we've had together. Will we ever speak again? While I’m friends with a lot of the other students in the other group, it’s more important now more than ever that I respect my place as a Rutgers student here in Yucatan. They have their own end-of-the year graduation party and we have—well, ?. But I’m not going to let these little things get to me…I should just be concentrating on my work; that’s all.

So I think that all this thinking is what left me really tired this morning when I woke up. What’s going to happen in our remaining few weeks? What kinds of things to I have to look forward to? When will I finish all my work?

I’ll just be taking one step at a time. And for some reason, I hear the famous words of the song by the mexicana cantante Selena running through my mind as I finish this entry…

Posted by jlsumich at 06:37 PM | Comments (0)

April 23, 2007

La Peregrina

(a story, as it was told to me by a Meridian)

Alma Reed, an American journalist, gazed into the intense green eyes of the man who sat opposite. She was a 33-year old tough investigative writer who could hold her own in a man’s world; and he, Felipe Carrillo Puerto, was the charismatic new revolutionary governor of the Yucatan. The electrical spark between them could have lit the street lamps of Merida. The adventuresome Alma was in the Yucatan on assignment for the New York Times to cover the Carnegie Institute archaeological study of the ruins at Chichen Itza. Yet the social reforms ushered in by the new Governor Carrillo piqued her reporter’s sense for news. The Mexican Revolution had ended only three years before and Carrillo was making an impressive name for himself as a reformer.

There were many facets to Felipe Carrillo as there were to Alma Reed and both were intrigued by each other’s intellect. He claimed to be a descendant of the Mayapan king who drove the Itzas from Chichen 700 years before. Under his new liberal leadership, he gave women the right to vote, organized Feminist Leagues, and placed women in governmental posts. He legalized birth control and established the first family planning clinics in the Americas. He supported land reform by forming edijos, communal farming groups. He built schools and roads and encouraged cottage industries for the poor. Most memorably, however, he was a vocal proponent of civil rights for the Maya.

She was an accomplished writer, strong willed, intelligent and very beautiful. At five feet seven, she towered over the Maya men and women among whom she and Felipe walked. When she returned to the Gran Hotel in Merida after that first meeting, she wrote in her diary: “He is the miracle of goodness and beauty.”

They both knew it was love at first sight, but Carrillo was married, with grown children. Nevertheless, the two spend every available minute together. Like a modern Romeo and Juliet, they stood watching while Carnegie archaeologists poked around the breathtaking ruins of Chichen Itza, when Alma asked, “Why did they build this great city—this fantastic city—only to desert it?”

“Perhaps one day you, little peregrine, will discover the answer to that riddle,” he replied.

“Peregrina?”

“Pilgrim—is that not what you are?—a wanderer who will all too soon return to your own far off land.”

After a brief intense affair, in which the two made no secret of their love for each other, Alma returned to New York with a ground breaking story about American Edward Thompson’s pillage of Maya artifacts from the Sacred Cenote at Chichen, which Harvard University had cached in their Peabody Museum. Her revelations allowed the Mexican government to reclaim some of the stolen treasures—though not until 1958. They are now on display in Mexico City, as well as the Peabody.

Alma’s stories were so insightful that The Times decided to make her “their woman in Mexico.” Once she returned to Merida, Felipe swept her away again when he visited with the news that he had made divorce legal in the Yucatan and had become the first to make use of it. He asked her to marry him and surprised her with a love song, La Peregrina, written and composed at his request Its lyrical melody and heartfelt words remain popular today in Merida and through all of Mexico. He also bestowed on her a Mayan name, “Pixan-Halal.” Pixan means soul and Halal is the word for a water reed.

La Peregrina, The Ballad of Alma Reed

Wanderer of the clear and divine eyes,
And cheeks aflame with the redness of the sky,
Little woman of the red lips,
And hair as radiant as the sun,
Traveler who left your own scenes—the fir trees and the snow,
the virginal snow—and came to find refuge in the palm groves,
Under the sky of my land,
My tropic land, The little singing birds of my fields,
Offer their voices in singing to you—And they look at you,
And the flowers of perfumed nectars
Caress you and kiss you on lips and temples.
When you leave my palm groves and my land,
Traveler of the enchanting face,
Don’t forget, don’t forget, my land.
Don’t forget, don’t forget, my love.

Their love for one another was so strong that it forever changed their lives. In October, Alma returned to her native San Francisco to prepare for their wedding in January 1924. But a power struggle on the federal level gave the powerful hacienda interests, who had bridled under Carrillo’s reforms, a chance to get rid of him. Late in 1923, Mexico and the Yucatan were plunged into revolutionary bloodbath. Carrillo, three of his brothers, and six lieutenants were arrested and imprisoned. His pleas for the lives of his brothers and his friends were ignored. On the morning of Jan. 3, 1924, he and his party were marched to the Cemesterio General in Merida and lined up against a high stone wall. Felipe gave one of the nervous soldiers the ring that was to be Alma’s wedding band. “Please see that Pixan-Halal gets it,” he asked.

The first volley from the firing squad hit the wall above their heads. The soldiers refused to kill the brave governor who had acquired the nickname of the “Abraham Lincoln of Mexico” for what he had done to free the Maya from virtual slavery. Incensed, the infamous military commander, Colonel Ricardo Braco, had the firing squad shot by other solders before executing Carrillo, his brothers, and their supporters.

Felipe’s grave, near the wall that still bears the bullet holes, is a large crescent moon-shaped family monument in the crowded cemetery. Poignantly, only a few feet away, under the quiet shade of the cedars and Lebanon pine, the grave containing Alma Reed’s ashes watches over the man whom she remained in love with until her death at age 77 in 1966. Sometimes, in the early evening, visitors to Merida claim they hear the faint strains of La Peregrina on the warm breeze.

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

April 21, 2007

Mexicanization

It should come as a surprise that I was woken up this morning by the sound of that awfully loud truck—the one that passes by the streets of Garcia Gineres blasting information about all the promociones and descuentos available in the centro.

But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t come as a surprise at all because I’m living my life Mexicanized. I’ve forgotten what should come as normal to me and what should seem strangely odd, strangely Mexican. I’ve forgotten where the line stands between expected and unexpected. I’ve forgotten some of the differences between Mexico and the United States.

I’ve been here more than 110 days already and at this point, I can honestly say that I’m living like a Mexican. I can’t talk much about the United States anymore because honestly, I don’t really know what’s going on in my country; I have no real access to television, radio, or computers to find out about the latest day-to-day stories. But that’s okay.

Because I’m here to live it like a Yucatecan. And to some extent, I am…

That’s why it comes as no surprise when the bus shows up 45 minutes late and then the bus driver, while in route, decides to take a snooze on the side of the road with a bus full of passengers.

That’s why it comes as no surprise when I can automatically detect just who’s living in Merida and who’s a tourist—I see it in the way they walk, the way they talk, and the way they behave.

That’s why it comes as no surprise when I hear that Princesa, the UADY stray dog that lives on campus, menstruated on Dayna’s lap as she was playing with her in the courtyard.

That’s why it comes as no surprise when Dra. Shrimpton-Masson first approved my topic paper for my final essay, then I wrote it, and then she changed her mind. One day, there are no rules; the next day, there are rules.

That’s why it comes as no surprise when someone stopped me a few days ago and asked me if I was Russian. I’ve already been named Chicano, Palestinian, and now Russian.

And that’s why it comes as no surprise when I see Mexicans and other study-abroad students deciding to piss on the walls of buildings out in public, like Wallmart, for instance.

And perhaps because all these things don’t surprise me anymore, I’ve been living through the past few days as if they were the dog-days of August—one after another with little new news and little excitement.

Nothing has particularly stuck out in mind this week at all.—nothing but posters and posters and posters of Xavier and Ivonne, plastered at every angle of the city.

Oh, and we did have an interesting discussion in my Literatura Latinoamericana class about the role of poetry and about how we as readers are expected to differentiate between creative poetry and poetry with an intended meaning. It was actually really interesting and it made me think of my writing classes in Michigan and the student’s writing at Virgina Tech.

But not much more than that has happened…

Come to think of it, perhaps all the dullness of the last few days is what has motivated me to call home a lot this past week; it sounds like things are more exciting back at home then they are here…

Because as for the moment, I have lots and lots and lots of work to do; I’m writing some of my final essays and I have an annotated bibliography of 50 sources to work on.

Posted by jlsumich at 11:38 AM | Comments (0)

April 18, 2007

Universidad Virginia Tech

Out of respect for the victims of the Virgina Tech. shooting, their families, and the students of the school, I´d like to post an article into my blog about the tragedy.

The article comes from el Diario de Yucatán, Merida´s primary newspaper.

This post also comes with deep respect for worldly, meaningful journalism and articulate, detailed writing.

I`d like to thank el Diario de Yucatán for providing such important but tragic news millions of miles away to Meridians and Yucatecans alike.
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Revelan que autor de masacre en Virginia envió vídeos y fotos a cadena de TV

6:21 p.m.
Nueva York, 18 de Abril (NOTIMEX).- El autor de la masacre en el Tecnológico de Virginia envió el mismo día de la matanza un paquete con videos, fotos y otros documentos a la televisora NBC, material que ahora podría ser clave para la investigación policial.

El estudiante surcoreano Cho Seung-Hui hizo el envío postal el pasado lunes en algún momento después de matar a dos personas en una de las residencias de la universidad y antes de asesinar a otros 30 estudiantes y profesores en un edificio cercano del mismo campus.

El presidente de NBC News, Steve Capus, reveló que la cadena recibió el paquete este miércoles por la mañana e inmediatamente se lo entregó a la Oficina Federal de Investigaciones (FBI) en Nueva York.

Según la televisora, los documentos enviados son "muy perturbadores" y con "vagas referencias", incluyendo frases como "esto no tendría que haber pasado" y "una larga declaración al estilo de un manifiesto", aunque sin incluir imágenes de los tiroteos.

El material incluye un video en el que aparece el surcoreano hablando a la cámara durante 23 minutos sobre su odio contra los ricos y una foto suya empuñando dos pistolas.

Según el matasellos, el paquete fue recibido en una oficina postal de Virginia a las 9:01 horas del pasado lunes.

"Puede ser un componente nuevo y clave para la investigación", manifestó Steven Flaherty, superintendente de la policía estatal de Virginia.

El lunes pasado, Cho mató a dos personas poco después de las 07:00 horas locales en West Ambler Johnston Hall, una residencia estudiantil cercana a la suya.

Unas dos horas después abrió fuego en Norris Hall, un edificio de aulas, donde asesinó a otras 30 personas antes de suicidarse.

Por otro lado, y de acuerdo con la cadena CNN, una corte especial de Virginia declaró a Cho "enfermo mental" en 2005 y subrayó que el surcoreano era "un peligro para sí mismo".

Más información en la edición de mañana de Diario de Yucatán
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Un día de luto y tristeza
Los estudiantes de Virginia tratan de asimilar la tragedia

BLACKSBURG (France Presse).— El presidente George W. Bush se unió ayer a miles de personas que lloran la muerte de los estudiantes y personal de la Universidad Virginia Tech, en un acto en memoria de las 32 personas muertas en el ataque.

Estudiantes con los ojos llorosos se abrazaban cuando ingresaban al Cassell Coliseum, muchos vistiendo los colores naranja y granate de la institución, en medio de un fuerte dispositivo de seguridad. El cuerpo de cadetes de Virginia Tech marchó solemnemente dentro del coliseo. Bush y su esposa Laura llegaron más tarde a la ceremonia.

La policía identificó a Cho Seung Hui, un estudiante sudcoreano de 23 años, como el atacante que protagonizó el mortífero tiroteo en la universidad. El joven mató a 30 personas en un edificio de clases antes de suicidarse y se sospecha que también asesinó a otras dos personas un par de horas antes, en otro edificio del campus universitario.

Bush indicó que él y su esposa Laura llegaron hasta allí con el corazón lleno de tristeza. Afirmó que era un día de luto y tristeza para toda la nación.

El presidente agregó que para muchas personas la matanza más sangrienta perpetrada en una universidad del país fue el peor día de su vida.

Sin embargo, Bush instó a los estudiantes y profesores a regresar a las “fuentes de fortaleza” de sus comunidades, y elogió el apoyo que los estudiantes se brindaron entre sí.

El presidente de la Universidad, Charles Steger, agradeció la solidaridad llegada de todo el mundo que, según dijo, conmovió profundamente a estudiantes y profesores de Blacksburg.

La ceremonia se inició con una procesión de honor con la bandera y el himno nacional. Muchos estudiantes tenían lágrimas en los ojos.

Los jóvenes estudiantes intentaban asimilar la matanza perpetrada por un compañero.

Una tensa calma rodeaba el habitualmente bullicioso ambiente en esta prestigiosa Universidad en Blackburg, una bucólica localidad de Virginia, donde, según sus habitantes, todo es tan tranquilo que ni se molestan en cerrar sus automóviles con llave.

La tranquilidad de hace unos días contrasta ahora con la fuerte presencia policial en el recinto universitario, donde los cordones impiden el paso a las escenas de los crímenes. Para los alumnos es difícil hacerse a la idea de que fue uno de ellos, Cho, estudiante de Filología inglesa, quien mató a 32 alumnos y profesores.

En otras entidades, amenazas recibidas por las autoridades académicas obligaron ayer a clausurar y desalojar varios centros docentes en Texas, Oklahoma, Tenesí y Luisiana.

En Luisiana, los padres recogieron a centenares de alumnos en la escuela de enseñanza media y otra de enseñanza elemental de Bogalusa, debido a las informaciones de que fue detenido un hombre por haber amenazado con cometer una matanza en una nota que mencionaba el incidente en la Universidad Virginia Tech.

Posted by jlsumich at 10:08 PM | Comments (0)

April 17, 2007

The Waiting Room, Part II

Yesterday night, I found myself sitting in the emergency room on Calle 60, waiting to be checked by a specialist. I’ve had a cough for quite some time now and have been taking medicine for it, but it hasn’t seemed to gone away. And I’ve lost my voice two or three times…

Over dinner, I was talking with m Señora once again about the people from Cancun and I described them as being de mala fama (sleazy). Well, she got very angry with me when I said that and started defending them because after all, Quintana Rooenses were once Yucatecos. I apologized. Then, she got a bit cold with me and questioned why I haven’t seen a doctor yet for my cold.

So, to appease her, I did.

I went to the emergency room as my elizabeth suggested and it certainly was an experience. However, it did take substantial time away from my studying.

I entered the building and explained my situation to the receptionist at the front desk. She sent me walking up and down and all around the building until I got to another secretary for the ear, nose, and throat specialist. I signed in with her and took a seat.

After waiting a while, the doctor saw me. I entered into his small, filthy exam room and he used the oldest medical tools on me. Perhaps they were Mayan. He told me I had nothing more than allergies and prescribed me some medicine, which I took the pharmacy downstairs.

Although this procedure sounds pretty standard, I somehow feel like it was different than going to see a specialist in the United States. Here things are a lot less stressful (which could be a good or bad thing) and the medical facility certainly wasn’t nearly as equipped as one would be in the United States.

But, I made it like Yucatecans do and I went to see a doctor.

And the experience was a good one. It made me think of the story I read a few weeks back—“The Waiting Room”—in my Caribeña class. It was my turn to wait for a check up, here.

And it also made me think about a discussion we had today in class, about puertorriqueños that have migrated to New York City over the past century. You know, I’ve never really taken the time to notice just how many puertorriqueños live in Manhattan or Jersey City or even Connecticut. I’ve never done any investigating.

But the conversation we had in class today made me really interested in the topic, probably because we were discussing the history of my own home-turf.

Perhaps so many puertorriqueños have come to New York for sake of a better life, better health-care, etc. I wonder exactly if there is a difference, since Puerto Rico is still a territory of the U.S.

Maybe they too, have to wait to see a specialist in Puerto Rico and get checked with old equipment.

Or maybe they have come for other reasons.

We spoke about their great migration to the States—about their role in the building of NYC barrios—and about how their presence has helped grow Latino culture in New York City. And I certainly believe that Latino culture is a visible entity in Manhattan.

We watched the Guagua Aerea to aid in some of our discussions.

It’s funny because when I got home from school, I did the reading for anthropology tomorrow as well. And we’re set to talk about great migrations made by Mexicans, as well, many of whom have also traveled to NYC and New Jersey.

I feel really foolish for not having known the history of Latinos in my neighborhood and state before.

It’s funny how I’ve never taken the time to really notice these things about my own home. It’s funny how these subjects come up for the first time when I’m out of my own country.

So maybe it’s time that I start opening my eyes a bit…

Posted by jlsumich at 10:49 AM | Comments (0)

April 14, 2007

El Septimo Nieto

I can’t sleep; I can’t go to bed. I’m just wide awake, lying here, thinking. It’s only 11:41 p.m. But I’ll be posting this in the morning, most likely. To my right, I hear an odd noise—a spinning sound. It reminds me of the sound of my washing machine, spinning at home in New Jersey. I wonder if it’s the fan making noise downstairs.

To my left, I peak out the window into the back yard. Tree limbs are dancing around in the light of the moon. Without my glasses, it reminds me of a fight—back and forth the branches sway, hitting each other in the wind. It reminds me of the story I read for class, the story of Anancy the spider. It’s about a spider that fights twig-like ghosts.

But in addition to the noise and the movement coming from the back yard, I can’t sleep because I’ve been preoccupied thinking.

You see, you’ll never guess what happened. You’ll never guess what happened because the fact is, I already did.

If you recall from my last entry—the one about my miserable trip to Cancun—I made up a story to Mr. Charly and his wife as an excuse to come home early.

Here was the story:

“I need to go home immediately,” I told them. “You see, my host ‘sister’ (it’s hard to call her sister when she’s in her 40’s) gave birth to her baby early and the whole thing was such a shock to the family that it put my host father in the hospital. I need to go home because Ben isn’t home and my family’s relatives from Mexico City have come to Merida to pass the Semana Santa. Someone’s got to look after the house and help them out while all this is going on. I’m really sorry. I must leave Cancun and go back to Merida.”

The family helped me buy my ticket home to Merida early at the Cancun station.

That’s the story I made up. That’s the story that got me out of Cancun.

That story came true yesterday.

Yesterday was a big day for my host family. My host “sister” Gabby, who indeed was pregnant, found out that she was ready to deliver her baby earlier than expected. Almost 3 weeks early. Meanwhile, this all came as such a shock that Antonio, (her brother that came from Mexico City with his family to pass the vacation) that he was rushed to the hospital. The family was tied between dealing with him in the hospital and dealing with the birth of Gabby’s baby, Antonio III.

And to add to it all, Ben isn’t home. He decided to go to Chiapas by himself...
So it was a good thing that I came home—good because I’m here to welcome the birth of a new member of the Cardenas family and good because I’m here to help out if they need me.

I’m here to welcome into the family my Señora’s septimo nieto.

Yesterday, I watched Julito and Dede (a.k.a. Miranda), two of my Señora’s youngest grandchildren, while she was busy running around doing things.

And so I’m sitting here thinking, thinking in a superstitious sort of way. The events of yesterday really made me realize that you never know what will happen.

I must say that for the first time in a long time, I really puzzled myself. It’s almost like I read the future…

You never know what your thoughts or words might bring. And so, I think I’ll say a prayer for the family that everything will work out alright. They’ve been so good to me that I hope the best for them in return.

Because you never know what tomorrow brings.

And you never know just who’s listening.

Posted by jlsumich at 12:40 PM | Comments (0)

April 13, 2007

Veronica's Parents: Photos

See blog titled "Veronica's Parents" for details...

(with Veronica in front of Senor Frogs at Isla Mujeres)

(with a Wolverine fan that I found)

(Mr. Charly and his wife-- Veronica's parents)

Posted by jlsumich at 07:01 AM | Comments (0)

April 12, 2007

Veronica´s Parents in Cancun

FROM: jlsumich@umich.edu
TO: ________@ .edu

Dear friend,

I’m writing this letter to you on Wednesday night, two days earlier than my expected return back to Merida from Cancun.

I probably won’t be able to send it until Thursday night, however.

As you well know, I went to Cancun with the intention of passing my spring break, known as the “Semana Santa” here in Mexico. I was invited by a girl in my anthropology class, Veronica, and a boy from my Literatura Caribeña class, Carlos, both of whom are from Cancun. They told me that when I arrived, I would be able to stay in either one of their houses (they didn’t tell me exactly which one, but I didn’t mind) and that they would be able to show me around some of the most visited sites in all of Mexico: Cancun, Cozumel, Isla Mujeres, and Playa del Carmen.

I arrived in Cancun with every intention of enjoying my week off—not only because I was offered the opportunity to visit these places, but because I was offered the opportunity to spend the week with a Mexican family.

But the trip didn’t turn out quite as I had expected it to. I arrived in Cancun’s ADO terminal to find out that one of the most talked about cities in all the world looked like nothing more than a Newark, New Jersey with palm trees. I saw graffiti all over the place, gang symbols, and bottles of beer lining the sidewalk streets.

But what bothered me more was that I arrived in Cancun without finding the two of them right away. The terminal was a big one (larger than others that I’ve been to) and I was put in a very uncomfortable position when I didn’t see them immediately. Even granted that the terminal is a large one, I was unhappy by the fact that they didn’t return my cell-phone calls.

I walked outside of the terminal, wondering if they were waiting by the main exit, and suddenly, someone attempted to rob me of my belongings. I pushed the man, kicked him, and yelled loudly—loud enough for him to run away.

Eventually I found them waiting for me. Greetings were short, followed by the old, “Do you want the good news or bad news first?” Carlos told me that I couldn’t stay in his house because there wasn’t enough room. Veronica told me that I could not stay in her house, but that I shouldn’t worry; I was to stay in the house of a family friend.

Okay, I thought. Maybe I’m staying with the neighbors. They brought me to “my house”, an abandoned shack of their family friends. The house had three walls, no electricity, no functional bathroom, and looked to be abandoned. “No,” I said. “I’m not staying here.” I explained to her that I am not accustomed to living in a foreign country and certainly not in a city that I don’t know that well. After my experience at the terminal, there was now way that I was staying alone. And if she provided me with no other option, I was ready to leave and head back to Merida. Actually, I shouldn’t have even accepted another option. I should have just left immediately.

She told me that a “Mr. Charly” was going to be really mad—that her father had changed his mind about me staying in her house. She explained that he was a “special person”—someone ultra conservative. She said if I wanted, I could speak to her mother. And then, she started to cry.

I was honestly very confused by the whole situation. Was it because I was a gringo? Was it because I was an hombre? I didn’t know. I figured that I should at least introduce myself to the parents, however, to see what was going on. Maybe I just didn’t understand Veronica…

They took my to the house that Veronica’s mom was working at. She’s a nurse that works with elderly people in their homes; she visits a few people each day, checks their blood pressure, and does some test-work.

We entered into the home and I met her mother. She seemed like a lovely person to me and told me that “of course” I could stay in their family’s home. She did tell me, however, that I would have to just introduce myself to her husband. She too, informed me that they are a very conservative family. I understood the hesitation, but certainly agreed to introduce myself. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

We left that home after eating lunch there. Although we said a blessing over lunch, I wasn’t phased that much. Although I did catch something quite odd about the blessing--mentioning Catholicism. I was just very confused. Many people are religious here and I just silently watched out of respect. After eating, Carlos, Veronica, and I went to downtown Cancun. We saw the Centro, the Plazas, and the beach area. I must say that I was fully unimpressed by everything I saw. The area is very touristy and I feel as if most people there are simply working to rip-off American visitors. I have never been howled at so much.

At night, her parents were still not home, so Veronica told me that they probably changed their minds; I was probably allowed to stay in the house. She explained that sometimes they go out after work to Cancun’s “hotel zone” to enjoy the evening out. I went to bed at about 11 pm. I had an empty room on the ground floor; Veronica was staying in her room on the top floor of the home.

In the middle of the night (at around 1:30 or 2:00 in the morning) I was suddenly woken up by the quick and loud entrance of her two parents. They opened the door, slammed it shut, and started yelling for Veronica. I quickly put on my glasses and got myself ready for introductions. I walked out into the living room area and heard screaming and crying on the top floor. It sounded like Veronica was in trouble for allowing me over.

Suddenly, the wife came downstairs and greeted me. She was practically in tears. She told me that “Mr. Charly” had changed his mind yet again and that I would need to “beg” to stay in the house. “I’m not begging for anyone,” I thought to myself. The worst thing that would’ve happened was that I would’ve packed up my belongings and left in the middle of the night back to Merida. I listened as the screaming and yelling continued from the top floor.

Then Veronica and her father came down. “Hola,” I said. I was a bit nervous—in fact, very nervous—to meet this man after hearing Veronica and the mother talk about him. “Yo buddy,” he answered me in a sleezy voice—the kind of voice we Americans associate with lower-class Mexicans. “How you learn your Spanish, dude?” he asked.
I told him that my father lived in Guadalajara, but I said it in such a way that made it seem like I was part Mexican. He further grilled me with questions: what I was studying, where I was studying, what part of the United States I come from, why I came to Cancun, etc. Despite his incredible sleezy-behavior, he wasn’t mean to me in any way.

“Somos cristianos,” he explained. “We are Christians,” he explained, “and that means in this house, we run a tight-ship.” I understood what he said, but at the time, didn’t realize the difference he was making between being Catholic and being Christian. I asked him if I could please have permission to stay in his house—that I wasn’t here to cause any trouble—and that I really wanted to see Cancun. I told him that I wasn’t accustomed to living in another country, that I wouldn’t stay in that old, abandoned house, and that if there was no other option provided, I would be returning home immediately.

“Mi casa es tu casa,” he said to me in his sleazy American accent. “You’re like my American brother from the North.” I couldn’t put up with his attitude, nor with his Tejano accent. But I figured it didn’t matter anyway, since I wouldn’t be hanging out with him. “Of course you can stay,” he said. “But know that Veronica and I still have things to talk about. There are issues that you don’t know of that have to be resolved.”

I went to bed.

I went to bed listening to the sounds of screaming and noise from the floor above.

At 4:00 in the morning I was awoken again by the mother of the house, that came into my bedroom, asking if I wanted to run with her. She told me that she runs every morning at 4:30 a.m. to stay fit with her church group and she watches the sun rise over the beach. “No thanks,” I said.

In the morning, the father already left to work when I woke up. The mother came down and greeted me. Then Veronica came down from the upstairs. Veronica asked her mother what had happened to her leg—there was a big bruise on her leg. And her mother motioned that it came from upstairs. I knew what she was talking about. Her mother offered me some of her protein-sodium-cholestoral-etc.-mix for the drinks and for the breakfast, some steroid-induced eggs. I declined everything and stuck with the Nutra-Grain bar I had brought from Merida and my Gatorade. And then I had some natural juice...

When she left, Carlos, Veronica, and I made breakfast—eggs— and then made our way to Isla Mujeres, an island off the coast of Cancun. The island was certainly nicer than Cancun, although still very touristy. People were yelling for me to enter into their shops and were spewing out lewd comments. I liked the island, but the people not so much.

On the island we went to see the only existing Mayan ruins left there, a sea turtle-sanctuary, a modern art exhibit overlooking the water, and we also went to the beach. It was nice, although I passed the whole day thinking about the two parents and if I was doing the right thing staying in the home.

We returned home from the island at about 6pm and both parents had already arrived back from work. We ate dinner together. Again, the father reminded me that they were Christians. We had to say the blessing again over the food. But this time, I listened to the words of the blessing: “…so that you, god, choose we Christians over all the Catholics to go to heaven….so that you protect the Christians of the world…we are your true followers...etc, etc...Amen…” It was then that I understood the distinction he was making between Christians and Catholics. The prayer was very extreme—I’ve never heard anything like it before, but I sat in silence. I didn’t want to open my mouth and say anything.

The father told me that he wanted to take a car ride with the entire family through the Zona Hotelera (the hotel zone) so that I could see what “Cancun” was really all about. I couldn’t argue with him. I didn’t have a choice. Veronica, Veronica’s sister, Carlos, the parents, and I packed into the tiny car. Of course, his seat was pushed all the way back giving me absolutely no leg room for the entire ride. I sat in such an awkward position. And I didn’t want to make a big deal about him moving his seat, almost out of fear of what he would do.

We rode around the hotel zone & to be honest, I wasn’t impressed. Cancun’s hotel zone is just that. It’s a bunch of massive—HUGE—hotels lining the sand. The hotels were enormous. But it wasn’t at all the quaint, charming setting that I like. I don’t think my parents would like it very much either. It was just enormous hotels one after another. And there were a few night-clubs here and there in between.

But I put on an act and said that it was one of the most beautiful sites I had ever seen. He kept talking to me in his sleezy voice the entire car ride. In moments of silence, they put on Evangelical Christian lectures, which spoke about the problems of Catholic doctrine. Then there were the music CDS that followed. “You know what I’d so if I saw a Catholic lying in the street?” the father asked me. I was silent. “I’d run it over!” he laughed. I was shocked.

I thought of my friend Erich because he’s Catholic. I thought of a friend I have in Michigan. I thought of my family friends down the street in New Jersey who are Catholic. And I thought of my host parents and all the people of Yucatan. Because they’re Catholic. And I thought about how all of these people are such good people and how they are not worthy of such treatment... They should not be the recipients of such hate.

In a way, I was internalizing their comments...

And he spoke to me rather seriously. That was the most uncomfortable part about it all. In between the radical Evangelical music, they spoke to me seriously about their immense hatred for Catholic people and doctrine. They asked me why I was studying in Yucatan with so many Catholics and the mother was commenting on all the “ludicrous” Catholic doctrine.

I thought to myself: “What would happen if I said I was Catholic?” Would they kill me? I honestly believed that it was a possibility. I didn’t dare to say that I was Jewish.

Then they told me that only Protestants are allowed in their house. Perhaps they just assumed I was Protestant because I come from the United States, a Protestant country. Just in case they asked me, I was ready to play along with it.

We kept riding around and the more we rode, the more uncomfortable I was getting. The father was just a real jerk and the mother was equally as crazy.

When we got back to the house, I asked permission to use the bathroom. Because in this house, you need permission to do everything; you need permission to use the bathroom, to get a drink of water, to walk to the top floor, the bottom floor, etc. And Mr. Charly told me that I couldn’t use the bathroom until everyone else was done. He told me he would tell me when I could use the bathroom. But he never gave me permission.

I decided that night that it was time to leave—that the next day I would call my father in the United States and we would hoax a story to get me out of my misery.

In the morning, I told them I had received word that something was gravely wrong with my family in Merida and that I would most likely have to return immediately.

The mother was shocked, but I played along with it so well, that I think she understood. She told me that she wanted to take me out for breakfast, anyway. I went with Veronica, the sister, and the mother to a taco-place in downtown Cancun. The mother was carrying her Evangelical bible with her the entire time, reciting passages in the car. We took a taxi-service only operated by Christians, she told me. Not Catholics.

And that was exactly the first thing that she told me when we got to the taco-place; the owner of the taco-place was Christian, not Catholic. And he only catered to Christians. What a surprise it would have been if I told them that I was Jewish! I have never been put in such a position in my life! And it almost made me scared, to be honest.

Afterwards, we purchased my ticket for the trip back. I made myself cry (or at least tear-up) to go along with my story; I made it seem like I was torn between staying in Cancun with this “terrific” family and going back to Merida. I made it seem like I was upset to leave and upset to learn “what was happening to my family in Merida”.

After buying the tickets, the mother dropped Veronica and I off at the beach directly, just to pass the remaining few hours before my bus ride back. It was okay. Honestly, nothing special.

And this story now brings me to Merida, where I’m currently writing this email. Despite the fact that I’m not sitting ocean-side on a warm beach at Cancun, I’m terrifically happy and safe to be back home in Merida. I love being in Merida and I love the people of this town. And I feel very safe here.

The fact is, my experience in Cancun really has made me think a lot. Because the fact is, the Veronica of Mexico is no different than the Veronica that you and I know. She’s no different than all of the “Veronicas” of the United States.

The Veronica of Mexico is a quiet girl, shy, and a very good student in class.

You’d never know what kind of family she comes from just by looking at her. You’d never know what kind of situation she comes from just by talking to her. You’d never guess about Mr. Charly or the crazy Christian jogging mother.

So even more than bring about Veronica or Carlos, this escapade is the story of Veronica’s parents. Because the fact is, Veronica’s parents in the United States are also really no different than those of Veronica’s in Mexico. We all know Veronica’s parents. We all have heard of or have come across people like Veronica’s parents before.

I’m not suggesting that the “Veronica’s parents” that you know are exactly the same as those I’ve met. I’m not saying that they do the same things or carry the same amount of craziness or hate.

But what I am saying is that they’ve certainly made a name for themselves and they’ve made this name out of building fear. They’ve made this name out of running a ship too tight.

Veronica’s parents in Mexico have left me with the same feelings as Veronica’s parents in the United States. They have left me with the same sense of extreme intimidation, the same sense of extreme nervousness.

And it’s those types of feelings that I hope never to return to again.

And so that's really about it for now... it's been a long few days. I'm interested in hearing what you have to say about this all...

Send me an email back; hope all is well.

I’ll be enjoying my time in Merida until school starts again on Monday.

Good luck with the rest of the semester…Study hard....

Ciao amigo,

Jason

Posted by jlsumich at 12:25 PM | Comments (0)

April 08, 2007

Hay Que Bailar Ese Ritmo

Le lo lai, ay le lo le lo; Yo vengo con cosa buena para mi pueblo--Traigo amor, traigo ese suero que alegra los corazones del mundo entero. Pa'l dolor, pa'l mal de amores; nada como el repique de mis tambores. Que q'hay tirarse a la calle dejando atras los problemas--Que como decia mi madre, bailando todo se arregla! Pegate un poco mas, pegado a los tambores. Olvida los temores, que el tiempo se nos va(mujer)...Pegate un poco mas, y mueve esas caderas Mamita cosa buena, que a mi me pone mal (ay Dios!).

Mueve tus caderas muchacha morena...Bailame ese ritmo con sabor a pena. Ay, ha lo que se quita, vas a ver chorrea, para que te olvides de todas tu penas. Y esta noche quiero mas--y esta noche quiero fiesta. Hoy no abra mal que por bien no venga. Unamos los corazones, hoy todos somos multicolores. Pegate un poco mas, pegado a los tambores--olvida los temores, que el tiempo se nos va (mujer)!Pegate un poco mas, y mueve esas caderas; Mamita cosa buena, que a mi me pone mal(ay Dios!).

Y que venga el coro, que venga. Con todo el amor, que venga. Para nuestros ninos, que venga. Que venga la paz, que venga. Que vengan todos, que vengan. Hay carril plena, que vengan. Ahi bien pegaditos,que vengan. Con much carinito, que vengan. Y que vengan rios de bondad, a todos los pueblos de la tierra....

Que no nos podemos olvidar...Que'l amor puro libera y la mentira envenena. Que como decia mi madre, bailando todo se arregla. Pegate un poco mas, pegado a los tambores---olvida los temores, que el tiempo se nos va (mujer). Pegate un poco mas, y mueve esas caderas; Mamita cosa buena, que a mi me pone mal(ay).

Un suero... mi pueblo (ay si!)
Cosa buena para quien quiera
La noche entera!

Posted by jlsumich at 09:59 AM | Comments (0)

April 07, 2007

Mis Estudios En México

Es increíble como muchas personas me preguntan si estoy estudiando aquí en México. Y como he dicho muchas veces, hay que puede aprender afuera de la clase también. Estoy aprendiendo siempre, y de hecho, le necesidad de hablar español diariamente es una forma de aprendizaje.

Pero, si quiere saber, estoy leyendo por el momento un libro interesante sobre México hoy en día, y específicamente como funciona en las relaciones internacionales.

A pesar del hecho que México ha desarrollado su posición en el mundo como un lugar abierto para el turismo y proyectos académicos, es importante notar como su posición ha cambiado en años más recientes.
Específicamente, las relaciones internacionales después de los eventos del 11 de septiembre 2001 se trasladaron más a la cuestión de la seguridad. En uno de los artículos, “La relación con Estados Unidos: la prueba de acido de la política exterior mexicana”, escritor Carlos Heredia Zubieta nota que “la lucha al terrorismo a escala global ha marcado absolutamente todas sus relaciones bilaterales y deja escaso espacio para la concertación y los acuerdos….”

Las acciones unilaterales de los Estados Unidos han puesto los otros países del mundo en nuevas posiciones, cambiando la manera en que ellos se manifiestan en los asuntos extranjeros. Como el escritor menciona, “El dictum bushista de ‘están conmigo o están contra mi’” ha infiltrado las relaciones internacionales.

Para mí, esta percepción es muy interesante. Y me imagino que la gente de muchos países piensa lo mismo; tiene la misma percepción de Bush y de los Estados Unidos…

Con respecto a México—con respecto de lo que puedo ver y de lo que estoy leyendo—los eventos del 11 de septiembre han causado muchos cambios por el país. Primero, por la primera vez, México entró en una lucha global contra el terrorismo. El apoyo militaría de México en la guerra en Afganistán y Iraq era una decisión diplomática, posible para mantener amistad con los Estados Unidos.

Y la cuestión de seguridad propuesta por los Estados Unidos después de los ataques en Nueva York ha llevado algunos problemas entre la relación de México y los Estados Unidos también. La preocupación con seguridad nacional puso mucha atención otra vez en la migración entre los dos países. La migración de mexicanos ilegales, que cruzan la frontera sin la documentación apropiada por razones sociales y económicas ha llegado a ser el origen de mucha tensión entre los dos países. Por un lado, la emigración de los ciudadanos de México a los Estados Unidos es muy importante para la economía del país; muchos mexicanos toman roles más básicos en la economía, usando su conocimiento y destreza de técnicas agriculturas. Pero por otro lado, esta entrada esta causando fricción con los ciudadanos legales. En realidad, hay que puede decir que el problema queda en las manos del gobierno de los Estados Unidos; parece que los oficiales no tienen planes para tratar los mexicanos que vienen del sur.

Entonces, México en años recientes ha basado su rol en las relaciones internacionales a lo largo siguiendo la posición de los Estados Unidos. Las propuestas de Presidente Foz durante su mandato, que incluye la creación de agencias políticas migratorias mexicanas, definitivamente indican interés en juntar México con su vecino del norte.

Además, podemos ver este interés en juntarse en la adopción e integración de muchas empresas estadounidenses en el país.

El libro es muy interesante y me pone en una posición interesante; es que estoy reflejando de lo que el autor dice de una perspectiva afuera de los Estados Unidos, pero sin embargo, con ojos estadounidenses…

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

April 05, 2007

Adventures of Bad Boy and Chico: fotografias

Here are some photos from my first week of Semana Santa. Please be sure to read the blogs that correspond to the photos...Disfruta.

San Cristobal de Las Casas

Palenque

Agua Azul and Misol-Ha

Chiapa de Corzo and Tuxtla

Cañon del Sumidero

Posted by jlsumich at 08:29 PM | Comments (0)

Adventures of Bad Boy and Chico: Returning to Merida

So we’re back now in Merida, the two of us; Erich’s at his house up north and I’m here in the centro writing and downloading my photos.

I just want to say that I had a really great time traveling to Chiapas; it was great to pasar un rato with Erich and all of the other people that we met along the way. We had some really great conversations, we got some awesome pictures. I fell a few times and Erich got a rash from a raspberry. I really learned to hate Blanco and respect the number 10; he may have learned a thing or two about music. We became peanut butter and jelly making experts, connoisseurs of flying buttresses, porticos, and high-relief steles. We befriended Australians, a Tejano vagabond, and two Vancouver biking hippies. And we also spoke a bit about how scary it is planning for our future…

Although we weren’t in school, I wouldn’t say that my learning stopped in any way. I really took in a lot while we were there together.

Something that I didn’t mention in my other entry was the time we spent “people watching” (as Erich likes to call it). You know, I never really thought just how much you could learn about a community from people-watching.

Erich and I sat around for a bit almost every day, just observing the people as they passed. In San Cristobal de Las Casas, we viewed immense poverty; men, woman, and children selling anything and everything just to make some money for food. We saw them all: the balloon vendors, the Chiclets children, women with weaving and bags, men with cigarettes and tic-tacs and candy.

I really enjoyed watching the people of Chiapas. It made me realize just how different the culture of Yucatan is; in a way, it’s a lot colder, a lot more “rapid fire”, a lot more advanced. The people of Chiapas seemed like nice people, but people certainly carrying a lot of heavy baggage.

We also learned of the great immigrant influence to Chiapas; in Yucatan, there is enormous pride to be “Yucateco”. Las personas en Yucatán se consideran como yucatecos antes de ser mexicanos. Americans, immigrants, and other Mexicans really aren’t accepted into the same social community.

But in Chiapas, it was different. There are many immigrants: Italians, Brits, Canadians, people from other parts of Mexico, etc. Chiapas is more of an eclectic community—more welcoming, more artsy, more “hippie” (as my host mother called it).

And so Erich’s idea to go “people watching” is something that I will always remember about our trip and something which I certainly will do in the future. At first it seemed sort of foolish, but in the end, I realized there was really much more to it. As the people passed us, we stopped to talk to some of them. I also got plenty of pictures.

That’s just one memory... But there are many, many from the Adventures of Bad Boy and Chico— many which I hope to relive in the near future…

Posted by jlsumich at 08:11 PM | Comments (0)

April 04, 2007

Adventures of Bad Boy and Chico

Adventures of Bad Boy and Chico
So, Erich and I have these names for each other: I’m ``Chico`` (after my falsified Chicano identity, which I so readily throw out into the public, hoping to be given some sort of special treatment) and he’s known as ``Bad Boy`` (because to be honest, he’s anything far from being bad).

In fact, the name ``bad boy`` derives from my own childhood; I remember my good friend Jung Jun (aka Chris Kim) ``christening me`` with the name in high school and it’s been a term that I readily associate with friendship.

And so, this story that I’m about to tell is our story, the story of Bad Boy and Chico, as it happened. After all, this is our adventure and nobody else’s. And the following are some of my own personal thoughts.

The Trip
On Thursday night, I met Erich in the ADO terminal ready for our trip to Chiapas. I was excited to go, because we’d been planning the trip for so long. At the same time, I was eager to get away from Merida for a bit—the sites, the sounds, the students, and to be honest, the roommate.

We left for the bus at 7:15. All in all the trip wasn’t that bad, although I could not fall asleep that easily; I kept staring at out the window, watching the full moon—first in Yucatan, then in Campeche, then in Chiapas. The full moon was traveling with us, following us through the entire trip.

Flight Plan, The Longest Yard, the Chronicles of Narnia…movies played on and on.

In the middle of the trip, I awoke however, to a random stop that we made on the side of the road. Erich was sleeping and didn’t notice what was going on, but I quietly stared out the window. I saw the bus driver hop down from his seat and talk to a man (a man who’s face I could not see), a man who was standing in the shadows.

Who was this man in the shadows? What did he want? Where did he come from? For a split second, I thought of the possibility that they were Zapatistas—that Commandante Marcos had followed us. Could he too have been following the full moon?

I peaked out the window and watched the man in the shadows, his arms gesticulating to our bus driver. Suddenly, two soldiers in camouflage uniform walked up to our bus, opened the under hang compartments and took out about five suitcases. They opened the suitcases, looking to see what was inside.

Who were these people? What did they want? I thought that the whole event was really strange. They weren’t in Zapatista uniform, but at the same time, I didn’t find their behavior to be that of Mexican national guards.

But I guess I’ll never know—just the image of the man in the shadows sticks out in my mind.

The Hillside
By daybreak, I was able to get a better look at the surroundings—at the state of Chiapas. We moved quickly through different terrain—through hills on a twisting, winding road. Erich said it reminded him of Colorado. I say it was more like California.

Immediately, I noticed the immense poverty—shacks on the mountainside, bricks left on the side of the road, women walking with their young children dangling on their backs.

Imagine this image.

Imagine a world with no Britney Spears, with no IPODS nor cell phones. There were no fancy cars, no Michigan hats…

Imagine a world like this—a living, breathing community so removed and so different from our own...

And as the clouds descended on our bus, I wondered what San Cristobal de las Casas would be like—I wondered if it was a thriving community like Merida.

``Wake up, wake up, wherever you are... I come from a land, I come very far. Jersey, `` I think ``is the name of my star.``

``Jersey,`` they chant `` is the name of your star.``

It really felt like I was entering into another land—totally different than that of any other part of Mexico I have really seen. Perhaps it was due to the extreme comfort that I feel right now around Merida, or just the slight tingle that I felt entering into Chiapas, a state torn by poverty and once the site of extreme uprisings by Zapatistas.

San Cristobal de Las Casas
Once Erich and I made our way to the hotel, we unpacked our belongings and headed out into the city of San Cristobal de Las Casas. It´s a charming city, with cobblestone streets, quaint shops, and cafes. It almost reminds me of Quebec City—the city of the north enclosed by a fortified wall. Here, the city stands the same, only fortified by the mountain range which circles it.

We walked around the city for a good number of hours, entering into churches and travel agencies, restaurants and shops. As we walked, I thought of the last trip I took with friends—the last long trip—to Quebec last summer. And I thought of how much I´ve grown as a person since that trip. How my outlook on some issues have really changed...

I enjoyed walking around with Erich—he explained to me a lot about the churches that we entered into and also about his experiences in Oaxaca. Apparently, Chiapas is very similar to Oaxaca, where he spent time on his last study abroad program.

We also had the opportunity to watch a concert in the centro. A large orchestra, dressed in black and white, played familiar American tunes: Fly Me to the Moon, Stand By Me, Sailing, and many more. I really enjoy watching such simple concerts, out in the open air and available for everyone to hear. Because after all, everybody should have the opportunity to listen to a little music

and eat well too, right? Erich and I ate at a nice Italian restaurant one night. The next day, we went to Doña Isabela’s panaderia, little bakery on one of the calles. The desserts we bought we good, although I was a bit upset when I found out that the woman at the cash register wasn’t the actual Doña Isabel herself. In fact, I don’t even think that there is such a lady…

By day and night we walked around the city; I especially liked attending the Palm Sunday ceremony at one of the largest iglesias with Erich. I watched him buy his palm and learned a little bit about the holiday and a little bit about the culture. It was a good experience all in all, something which I’ll never have the opportunity to do again, most likely.

You Can Pick Your Friends, but not your Family
Being on this trip has made me realize that you can pick your friends, but not your family.
And I must say that this reality certainly ends up being a good thing. Over the course of the past few days, I’ve understood better and better how great it is to have the opportunity to choose and make friends; on the flip side, I’ve come to realize how fortunate I am to have such a great, functional family.

And I make this statement by way of comparison:

Erich and I are sitting in the hotel room in San Cristobal de las Casas when he mentions to me that Louisa (another extranjera studying at the UADY from his group) and her mother and sister have arrived in San Cristobal.

Louisa had mentioned something to me a few weeks ago about possibly meeting up and she had spoken to Erich about it even more in detail.

I wasn’t opposed to the idea because Louisa happens to be a nice girl and a smart girl; she’s a student at Colombia University and I have (over the course of our discussions) really related to her college experience.

So when Louisa called Erich and asked if her Mom and her sister could join us for a while, I was not upset about the idea.

Then came the warning.

We’re sitting in the centro and Erich tells me he’s found out that Louisa’s family isn’t the “traditional family”; they’re extremely liberal and almost “hippie” by trade. We’re waiting for them to meet us, mind you.

“Okay,” I thought. “I can do this.” I didn’t want to prejudge her family, although I must admit that I silently was. I thought about some of the ultra-left people that I’ve come in contact with at Michigan and about some of the differences in our opinions/behavior.

And although I silently agreed with myself that they wouldn’t be “my type of people”, I conceded that it was important to be a good person and hold up my end of the bargain. I felt that it was important to be respectful to Louisa no matter what her family was like.

“Instead of floral center arrangements in their home,” Erich told me, speaking of Louisa’s home, “they have pots of marijuana instead.”

Okay. That was enough for me. I started to get a bit more judgmental.

We ended up meeting Louisa, her younger sister and her mother; they certainly fulfilled my expectations.

Louisa’s mother, a divorced woman from France, looked as if she was leading the sexual revolution/hippie movement of the 1970’s.

Like the “Patty Hearst of Paris”, Mrs. “Louisa’s mother” (for lack of a better name) had the face of a woman living with a strange past.

As the four of us sat in a jazz café, she spoke to me about trying some of own remedies for my sore throat: cucumber onion tea, tobacco with lemon, snake skin and carrot paste…

The conversation went on for about an hour and by the end, I understood that Louisa was living a life far different than I imagined; she came from a family that I would never have expected…

She was a girl with a very different family situation than that of my own. Perhaps it was her sister’s joint rolling and her mother’s approval that put me a bit out of my own comfort zone.

My experience talking with Louisa and her family made me think of their faces; her mother’s expressions and strange mannerisms were definitely engrained in my mind for sometime after…

And I thought about a famous poem that I had studied, which I shared with Erich later on in the evening:

We Wear the Mask, Laurence Dunbar
Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

How Louisa hid so well her family! Sure, she’s opened about talking about them, but on the surface, you’d never guess….

Later that night, Erich and I spoke before bedtime. We spoke about our own families and our own personal upbringings. And I listened very carefully to what Erich had to say. It seemed that in terms of upbringing, we had a lot in common to share.

All that I can say is that I’m glad that I have the family I do.

Tuxtla: Jaguares!
Vamos Jaguares! Erich and I went to see a soccer game:

Jaguares vs. Santos
1 to 1
March 30th, 2007

at the Tuxtla stadium.

Futbol is definitely a part of the Mexican culture and I think it was great that we went to see a a game. We took a bus from San Cristobal to the capital city of Chiapas, Tuxtla. The city was much hotter than San Cristobal; it’s not set in the mountains.

It was a lot of fun getting the chance to do something a bit different.

Vamos Jaguares a ganar! Vamos Jaguares!

The German Efficiency
Erich thinks that I’ll have a heart attack by the time I turn 40—no, 35. He’s switched his mind only within the course of a few days, clearly citing that I live my life very fast-paced—very (as I like to call it) “rapid fire”.

We’ve spoken a lot on the trip about some explicit differences between us.

Obviously, we’re followers of different religions. Though, like many times before, I’ve gained incredible knowledge and satisfaction from engaging in such talks regarding our religion; it’s been great to talk about and represent my Jewish faith. I think more and more, I’m discovering and establishing my own dignity along with respecting the dignity of others as well.

And, as I celebrate the Passover holiday for the first time alone, away from my family, outside of the country (in a place where there are no Jews), I’ve certainly felt closer to my Jewish community more than ever.

My talks with Erich have been great; as I sit at the pool writing this entry, I think of how much greater it would be if most of the world would take the time to get to know other people. I think about how great it would be if other people took the time to learn about other religions—about people of other races, ethnicities, cultures, and sexual orientations—

because there really is no room or place in this world for misunderstanding. There really is no reason for it at all. The world would be a much better place if people just took the time to stop and listen.

Stop and Listen.

But despite our differences in religion, Erich and I also come from very different parts of the United States.

And this difference is something that I am conscious of and often encounter with other people at Michigan. You see, I live my life based on very New York influenced culture. I love being busy. I love eating on the run, rushing around, staying 100% active.

I live for pressure.

And this outlook is something that I don’t share in common with Erich or many of my fellow Wolverines back at Michigan. Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been active. I’ve always set high scholastic and co-curriculur expectations for myself—I’ve always led, and always have engaged.

And I’ve done this because I know I can. I’ve set high standards and have forced stress upon myself because I know I can.

And so on our trip, Erich has noticed this difference. I like rushing around, making sure that I see everything. And on the flip side, he’s more laid back—not really laid back, but just more relaxed.

And I’m okay with that. I accept the fact that I like to remain constantly busy, even if that means “getting a heart attack” (although I know he meant that comment just as a joke and in good faith). I’m okay with rushing around—even if that means compromising my social life for a bit.

And today in Palenque, the subject was brought up one more time.

We left early from San Cristobal de las Casas for a tour we booked to the Agua Azul and Mihsol-Ha. In our group were two other students from Europe—Finland and Sweden. Erich and I made friends with the two girls quite easily, who are also here in Mexico on a semester abroad and are living in Guadalajara.

Over breakfast, we spoke about our traveling experiences. The girls told us how they travel in a very relaxing way—how they like to take things as they come.
“None of that German efficiency,” the Swede girl said, as she looked at Erich and I . “We don’t live our lives based on the German efficiency.”

German efficiency? Was that me? I had never heard that term before.

Do I have the so-called “German efficiency”? And (as I have wondered time and time again) is having the German efficiency really a bad thing?

I think that it was just really funny how Erich and I had been talking about the subject through the course of the whole trip and then all of the sudden, out of the blue, a Swedish blond stranger brings up the topic again.

Does it really have anything to do with the fact that I’m German? Maybe it does… Although I really don’t see my grandfather living in similar suit, with a very fast-paced behavior…

Don’t Japanese people move quickly? Or Canadians?

Am I really living my life in accordance with my German identity?

In any event, we ended up befriending these two girls and talking with them throughout the entire day. They were really funny.

Agua Azul and Mihsol-Ha were beautiful sites; both allowed us to see the difference in terrain between Chiapas and Yucatan. The jungle environment is aesthetically challenging to the eye and tucked away from real major distraction.

As I walked the sites, I thought of my two friends from the papeleria that are originally from Chiapas. What caused them to move to Merida? How different and equally exciting the state of Chiapas is! I’m really glad that I had the opportunity to come

and I’m really glad that I’m able to pass the time with such interesting and genuine people.

And so throughout our day, the conversation continued.

“My father says,” the Swede eventually conceded, “that it’s important to plan some of your life.”

I looked at her carefully.

“Because if not, life will just rush on by.”

I was really happy to hear her say this to me, because I felt that her outlook was really smart.

Life is too short to just have it quickly rush by.

It’s a shame that some people don’t take the time to think about their own lives—that they don’t take the time or energy to do a little planning. You see, everybody in this world has a project designed for them; I’m just confused why some people don’t take the time to work on it a bit more.

And Erich and I continued the conversation only a few hours ago over dinner.

I felt that it was important for him to know about how I operate, about how I think. You know, we’ve speaking so openly to each other over the course of the semester that I just wanted to set the record straight.

“So hear me out:

I don’t consider myself the average kid. But I am who I am and you get what you get.

I get a thrill from being active. I get a thrill from learning and a thrill from living.

I experience opportunities as I see fit. I live my life in bounds, out of bounds, and constantly in rhythm.

Even if that means making social sacrifices. Even if that means not being able to conform my identity to other’s expectations.

I go to the University of Michigan. I work hard, I play hard.”

And I hope that I made my point. I really think I did.

And I felt really happy about engaging in another great conversation. Because by the end, I walked away knowing something priceless:

I am me.

Hat in the Water
I love Michigan. I just want you to know that. I love the school spirit, the academics, the great opportunities afforded to me, and the people that I get to share it all with.

Don’t forget that.

Of course, talking about missing Michigan while on a study abroad experience is a totally different topic. Right now, I just want to let you know that I have great respect for my institution.

And that deep respect has certainly become embodied in my Michigan hat.

I remember exactly when I bought my hat. My brother convinced me to get it—he put me up to it. He’s been wearing hats for years and I have never done the same.
I remember how he dragged me to the mall—how we shopped for it together—and how I made such a fool of myself trying it on.

Should I get a small? A large? What does “one-size” mean?

All-in-all, my M-hat has definitely served its purpose here; for my brother’s help, I am certainly grateful.

I wear my hat (my first hat, mind you) almost every day. Always front-sided and never hanging partially off my head (like my brother’s hat), my hat stands as a reminder of good memories back at Michigan an good memories spent with my brother.

And it’s also been a great way to connect with other Wolverines here in Mexico.

It shouts out: “I’m a Wolverine! Hail to the Victors!” and it’s certainly done the job. I’ve met more Wolverines here and Wolverine fans than I ever expected.

So when my hat fell into the rushing water of Agua Azul, I was mortified. My heart sank. I had been trying to take a picture of the waterfall from the rocks when I fell and the hat rolled off the bank and into the water.

Luckily, a man in the water reached for the hat with a branch and retrieved it for me.

So okay, I know you might think that this entry sounds silly, but it’s not to me.

I really like being a Wolverine. I really like my hat.

And I really like all of the memories that come along with it.

And now, it has even more stories to tell.

Crustyness, Schvet, and Schmutz
Over the course of the study abroad experience, I’ve met a lot of people from all over the world.

That to me is really special.

But what I think is even more “mind boggling” (as someone would say) are the conversations that I’ve had with those people I’ve met.

The two girls from Northern Europe that Erich and I met on this trip are one such case.

It was great listening to them, getting to know what life in another country is like and getting to hear another foreigner’s perspective of Mexico.

“Yach itz not ast cheep ast you’d think,” said the Swede girl with her heavy accent.

Her accent really reminded me of my grandfather’s.

And through out conversation, I was really surprised by the words and phrases that I picked up: schvitz, schmutz, schlump, etc.

(And apparently, Erich says some of those words in his house as well)

The girls were funny, but their talk of “crustyness” at the end was the climax of our conversation.

Kids are kids, no matter what country we’re from. Some things transcend all borders.

Laughter seems to be universal.

Palenque
Es cierto que las ruinas en Palenque son muy distintas que las otras ruinas de Yucatán. Entre selva, cascadas y montanas, el sitio es mucho más grande que los otros, y la turista puede pasar todo el día en el sitio, observando nuevos artefactos de los proyectos de excavación.

Erich y yo fuimos dos veces al sitio—una vez después de ver el Agua Azul y otra vez la próxima mañana. Pero en la segunda mañana, estaba vistiéndome en una camisa negra—un idea muy mal. Aunque el me avisó que había mucho calor, no le escuché, y llevé agua conmigo.
Nunca jamás voy a vestirme en una camisa negra. Estaba sudando muchisimo. Nunca.

La Camisa Negra Tengo la camisa negra hoy mi amor esta de luto

Hoy tengo en el alma una pena
y es por culpa de tu embrujo

Hoy sé que tú ya no me quieres
y eso es lo que más me hiere

que tengo la camisa negra
y una pena que me duele
mal parece que solo me quedé
y fue pura todita tu mentira
que maldita mala suerte la mía
que aquel día te encontré
por beber del veneno malevo de tu amor
yo quedé moribundo y lleno de dolor
respiré de ese humo amargo de tu adiós
y desde que tú te fuiste yo solo tengo…
tengo la camisa negra
porque negra tengo el alma
yo por ti perdí la calma
y casi pierdo hasta mi cama

cama cama caman baby
te digo con disimulo
que tengo la camisa negra
y debajo tengo el difunto
tengo la camisa negra
ya tu amor no me interesa
lo que ayer me supo a gloria
hoy me sabe a pura
miércoles por la tarde y t ú que no llegas
ni siquiera muestras señas
y yo con la camisa negra
y tus maletas en la puerta

Final Thoughts
So, you might call this entry stream of consciousness—you might call it a narrative or creative writing, a documentary, or maybe even a reflection.

You might call it good writing or drab (or if you’re an engineer, you might even call it ``well writing``). To you, it might seem simple or complex; it might be even noteworthy.

But at the end of it all, you should call it a memoir—because after all, that’s all that it is—nothing but memories that are now just a thing of the past...

Posted by jlsumich at 08:01 PM | Comments (1)