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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 April 12, 2007 12:25 PM