jlsumich_mexico: May 2007 Archives

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May 23, 2007

México

Over thirty years ago, my father fell in love with a land where the people laughed in the sun as they themselves radiated warmth and sunshine—a land where the people lived and walked and breathed the days easy and content. He lived in a place where women with café colored skins and men with mustaches turned upright into smiles danced by day and sang by night to Celito Lindo and the calls of birds flying freely through the open air.

Thirty years ago, my father was living in México. Thirty years ago, my father was a student in Guadalajara. He passed many years in this country; he became fond of its people, their ideas, the way of life and he returned to the United States with many wonderful memories to share.

Those memories have been shared with me ever since I was very little.

I remember listening to my father who told me of the friendships he made, the things he studied, and the places he visited. He told me how at first, it was difficult to adjust to a different culture, but gradually, things worked out just fine. And after hearing his stories, I knew that I too, wanted to study and live in another country.

Thirty years after my father, it became my turn to study-abroad.

I decided to study in México because it’s a country rich in culture as it is in tastes and sounds, a pais with beautiful people on the inside and outside, a tierra of treasured destinations. And I chose México because of the special relationship that my family has with the country, because the people treated my father so well when he lived here.

And so I arrived in Mérida during the early afternoon of January 1st.

When you first arrive in a city, you see buildings, streets, signs that make no sense. Everything’s unknown, virgin.

“Someday,” I reassured myself, “you’ll have lived in this city. You’ll know these streets by heart. You’ll have lived in these buildings and lived stories with these people…”

It’s true. Once you’ve lived in this city, crossed this street or that 10, 20, 1000 times—10, 20, 10, 20, 1000 times—Buenavista, Paseo Montejo, Colon—it all belongs to you, because you’ve lived here.

When I first arrived, I hoped that it would happen, but to be honest, I wasn’t quite sure. I didn’t quite know what to expect on January 1st.

Over time, “Colon”, which sounded like “Centro” was added to the long list of once bizarre sounding names tucked into my brain. Colon slowly slipped in next to Circuito, Kanasin, Garcia-Gineres, Chapur, Chedraui, Campestre, Colonial…

And slowly, with practice, it all became normal and familiar.

But more about my expectations: When I arrived here in the early morning of January 1st, I came in the best way a foreign exchange student should enter into a new country: with little idea what to expect or what to anticipate for the semester.

I did come, however, with the intention of passing my experience “like a Yucatecan”—trying new foods, listening to music, celebrating the holidays, the cultural aspects, etc. And obviously, I came with the intention to speak as much Spanish as possible. And I didn’t know if it was possible.

Five months later, I was able to realize all of my goals and surpass them much further.

Five months later, I write to you the story of a take-off; no, it’s not the story of a plane or an incident that happened in an airport. It’s the story of me and the great discoveries that I’ve made on a five month adventure here in Mérida. These five months have been the best five months of my life, socially and academically, emotionally and spiritually; it’s hard to believe that it has all come to an end. In five months, a lot has changed.

When you arrive in México, you first arrive as a tourist. You take photos on every corner. You speak English, or maybe even Spanglish. You talk of movies like “Tu Mama También” and of singers like Ricky Martin and Jennifer Lopez. You think you know all there is to know about Latino culture and Latino history. “After all,” you tell yourself, “the Alamo is in the United States.”

And everything seems to be okay, for the time being at least. “They’ll like you because you’re a foreigner. They love foreigners; it’s just strangers they hate.” That’s what you read in the little book you bought at a coffee shop in New Jersey before coming. They love foreigners. They love foreigners. You say the words over and over again. But you don’t understand the second part.

As time continues, you begin to meet people, you begin to see how they think and think as they see. You learn what they feel. And you gladly welcome it all in because you’re willing to open up to a new culture and to new people. “If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion and avoid the people, you might better stay home.” That’s what you read from the same little book, the one that has now found a permanent spot in your bookbag. It’s true. You might as well have stayed home—home in Michigan—if you’re unwilling to make the most of your time.

And, to make things even mejor, you are living with a family while you’re here. What better opportunity could you have to learn more directly about Mexican people?

With each day that you spend away from home, everything becomes more normal; you start to immerse yourself in the culture instead of remaining a tourist. No longer are you a stranger in a far away land…

*No more were the billboards announcing the next Starbucks or McDonalds, no more donut stops or kosher butchers or cold bottles of water. My world turned into fruit flavored sodas, tamarindo, apple, piña; Pato Pascual with Donald Duck on the bottle, or Lúlú, Betty Boop soda, or the one we hear on the radio, the happy song for Jarritos soda.

In time, everything turned into another language. Toc, says the light switch in this country, at home it says click. Honk say the cars at home, here they say tán tán tán. I heard the scrip-scrape-scrip of high heels across saltillo floor tiles. The angry lion growl of the corrugated curtains when the shopkeepers roll them open each morning and the lazy lion roar at night when they pull them shut. The pic, pic, pic of somebody’s far away hammer. Church bells over and over, all day, even when it’s not o’clock. Roosters. The hollow echo of a dog barking. Bells from skinny horses pulling tourists in a carriage, clip-clop on cobblestones and big chunks of horse caquita tumbling out of them like shredded wheat.

Sweets sweeter, colors brighter, the bitter more bitter. A cage of parrots all the rainbow colors of the fruit-flavored sodas. Pushing a window out to open instead of pulling it up. A cold slash of door latch in your hand instead of the dull round doorknob. Tin sugar spoon and how surprised the hand feels because it’s so light. Children walking to school in the morning with their hair still wet from the morning bath.

Mopping with a stick and a purple rag called la jerga instead of a mop. The fat lip of a soda pop bottle when you tilt your head back and drink. Birthday cakes walking out of a bakery without a box, just like that, on a wooden plate. And the metal tongs and tray when you buy Mexican pan dulce, help yourself. Cornflakes served with hot! milk. A balloon painted with wavy pink stripes wearing a paper hat. A milk gelatin with a fly like a little black raisin rubbing its hands. Light and heavy, loud and soft, thud and ting and ping.

Churches the color of flan. Vendors selling slices of jícama with chile, lime juice, and salt. Balloon vendors. The vendor of flags. The corn-on-the-cob vendor. The pork rind vendor. The fried-banana-vendor. The hot cake vendor. The strawberries and cream vendor. The vendor of rainbow pirulis, of apple bars, of elote bathed in margarine. The ice cream vendor—and a very good ice cream at only two pesos. The coffee man with a coffeemaker on his back and a paper-cup dispenser, the cream and sugar boy scuttling alongside him.

Little girls in Sunday dresses like lace bells, like umbrellas, like parachutes, the more lace and froufrou the better. Houses painted purple, electric blue, tiger orange, aquamarine, a yellow like a taxicab, hibiscus red and a yellow-and-green fence. Above doorways, faded wreaths from an anniversary or a death till the wind and rain erase them. A woman in an apron scrubbing the sidewalk in front of her house with a pink plastic broom and a bright green bucket filled with suds. A workman carrying a long metal pipe on his shoulder, whistling ffttt-fffttt to warn people— watch out! —the pipe longer than he is tall, almost putting out someone’s eye, ya mero —but he doesn’t, does he? Ya mero, pero no. Almost, but not quite. Sí, pero no. Yes, but no.

Fireworks displays, piñata makers, palm weavers. Pens, --Five different styles, they cost us a lot! A restaurant called—The King of the Taco. The napkins, little triangles of hard paper with the name printed on one side. Breakfast: a basket of pan dulce, hotcakes with jirabe; or huevos con pollo; frijoles with fresh cilantro; mollletes or scrambled eggs with chorizo; eggs a la mexicana with tomato, onion and chile; or huevos rancheros. Lunch: vegetable soup or sopa de lima; fresh-baked crusty French; carrots with lime juice; carne asada; panuchos, salbutes, cristianos, and papazchutlzes; tortillas and tostadas. And when we eat outdoors, Mexican dogs under Mexican tables — the dogs so friendly it’s you that start to beg for more.

The smell of diesel exhaust, the smell of somebody roasting coffee, the smell of hot corn tortillas along with the pat-pat of the women’s hands making them, the sting of roasting chiles in your throat and in your eyes. Sometimes a smell in the morning, very cool and clean that makes you sad. And a night smell when the stars open white and soft like fresh bolillo bread.

And as you start to immerse yourself more into the culture, you start to realize what’s right and what’s wrong, what’s easy to do and what’s more difficult. You learn to differentiate between accents, how much money to tip, and how to call a cab. And you learn that riding the bus is annoying. Bus drivers sleeping, smoking, drinking behind the wheel. Sometimes stopping for a siesta or to go to the bathroom. Or maybe he’s even ordering his wife a present or buying movie tickets for a girlfriend. You become pressured, angry—you might even go through culture shock — and you start to realize what hassles you.

Later, much later, all your hassles become adventures. These aggravating incidents, the worst experiences and events of your trip are the ones you talk about the most to others.

It’s only after the 150th time of putting toilet paper in the toilet that you really learn what makes Mexicans mad. It’s only after your host mother practically watches you in the bathroom that you realize you’re not living in your own environment and that things are different.

As the days pass, you set up a routine for yourself: you go to school by morning, come home for lunch and then your siesta and then you study, read, and write. God bless the hour of the nap!

During siesta time, the house finally becomes quiet, all the apartments are still, front and back, up and down, even in the courtyard. The world is napping. As soon as my señora has cleared off the lunch dishes, she too retreats to her bedroom. Bedroom doors shut, key click-clicking twice behind her. Everybody knows better than to knock.

“Then there were no people, nor animals, nor trees. There was only the deaf silence of the waters.”

–Popul Voh, a surviving Mayan text

From my room on the second floor, I can hear the señor’s snoring and coughing and señora’s nervous shuffling about in her chanclas with the squashed heals. They used to be his slippers…

After a restful afternoon and then your studying, night-time calls you for exploring, the chance to venture out into the city— party, try new foods, engage in local customs, meet new people— until your stomach becomes full, your heart content, and your eyelids slowly descend until daybreak.

These are the ways in which you’re turned into a local and you learn what’s good and where to go— the café with wireless internet, the ice cream place with flavors so sweet and prices so cheap, the chili bar, the salsa disco— these are the places in which your Spanish improves the most.

With each new experience, you also learn a lot about your past and the world in which you came from. You learn a lot about the United States— its peoples, its customs, and its role in the world.

“Poor Mexico, so far from God, so close to the United States.”

–Porfirio Diaz, Mexican President 1830-1915

You begin to recognize just how provincial the United States is. And that the grass is no much more greener on the other side. It’s just different grass, that’s all. But most certainly not any greener and most likely not even as natural. You learn not to talk about the United States that much— what’s the purpose? Nobody really gives a damn and rightly so.

And you also learn a lot about your studies and about school. You go to your school every day and you attend all of your classes. But as the days continue on, you realize that there’s so more to learning than what’s confined to a classroom and textbooks. There’s more important things in this world than facts concerning the American Revolution or character flaws inherent in Victorian literature, Texas Instrument calculators and beakers full of chemicals.

You adopt the idea that you “learn by living” and you like the way it sounds. There’s something that feels quite right about your new mantra.

But at the same time, you learn the value of your education in the United States. You learn that there is nothing like an education in an American university and there’s most definitely nothing like a University of Michigan education.

There’s nothing like a University of Michigan education.

You find comfort in recognizing this value and you take pride after realizing that you’re living in a land where the gente millions of miles away from Ann Arbor still ‘Hail to the Victors’ …And you take pictures with everyone you see supporting your school.

Never did I expect to see people Hail to the Victors in Yucatán, México. I am so proud to be a Wolverine.

And while you make all of these reflections and live your life in the culture, you make lots of friends— both extranjeros and Mexicans.

You travel together, have long conversations, practice your Spanish, and feel welcomed and challenged. You learn to respect not only the diversity and passions of the Mexican students, but those of the American students as well. Chats by a fireside, on a bus ride, in a hotel, and on the trek to the biblioteca become some of your fondest memories. You are fortunate to meet some really great people.

And I don’t know how it is with anyone else but for me these things, that song, that time, that place, that conversation, are all bound together in a country that I’ve come to love, a country that I’ll be crying for, a country that really, perhaps might not even exist. A pais that was fabricated, invented, conjured up like the tourists that pass through its lands. Something that quite possibly never existed. Something that we all invented. Like the emigrants of the tierra caught up here and there and somewhere in between the two.

And before it all fades away into memories and infinity, I sit here trying to capture some of it all down…

So that’s where you find me now, as I write to you my story. While we might say that it is ending, I would like to think in the possibility of it just beginning. I’ll leave as I left five months ago— with little expectations, little anticipations, but large intentions— and I’ll bring with me a lot more— many wonderful memories of women with café colored skins and men with mustaches turned upright into smiles that dance by day and sang by night to Celito Lindo and the calls of birds flying freely through the open air.

Never before have I been treated as well as I have by the buena gente of Mérida and of México. Never before have I felt so humbled, so welcomed, and so fortunate to live amongst a group of people. Never before and most likely never again…

The people of México are good people.

And while they might not share in the same economic prosperity that you or I might in the United States— while they might not walk around with IPODs or cell phones—they carry with them the consciousness of something far more valuable, something often hard to come by; that being the beauty and importance of human relations. They carry with them respect for one another and today I carry with me that same respect.

“Entre los individuos como entre las naciones, el respeto al derecho ajeno es la paz.”

-Benito Juarez, Mexican President (1806-1872)

The people of México have taught me what is most important in life—what “bare necessities” we often overlook in a country marked by materialism, prisa, broken families and broken homes. They taught me that it’s okay to say hello to complete strangers, to kiss and shake hands with people, and to enter into a home without forewarning. And, as my book first told me (and later I discovered) they taught me about myself. “The real meaning of travel, like that of a conversation by the fireside, is the discovery of one’s self through contact with other people.”

The people of México- the women that slave making tortillas and the men that chop trees with nothing but steak knives- unlocked the chains of self-discovery that were too rusty or too time consuming to unlock at home.

They taught me that the voyage of discovery lies not in finding new landscapes, but in having and learning to use those new eyes, the new heart, and the new brain. And I thank the Mexican people for giving me these gifts.

I’ll leave with those gifts and with many wonderful recuerdos of amigos and familia, of Chichén Itzá, and geckoes on the wall, of Eugenia and hamacas, flan and the Mercado—of days passed easy and content and plenty full to fill my baggage.

I’ll leave México where I started.

Tomorrow I’ll begin with a take-off.

* selection appearing in Sandra Cisneros' full length novel, Caramelo.

Posted by jlsumich at 01:32 PM | Comments (0)

May 20, 2007

Jon Secada, ''Un Mundo Nuevo''

hoy, vas a encender
una llama en el corazón
y otra vez vuelve a nacer
la esperanza de ser mejor

es el sueño de poder lograr
alcanzar esa estrella
que en lo alto esta

ven, dame tu mano
somos hermanos
compartiendo una ilusion
solo así, veemos un día
un mundo nuevo
donde siempre brilla el sol

ven, dame tu mano
juntos estamos
descubriendo una razón
solo así, veremos un día
un mundo nuevo
donde siempre brilla el sol

hoy vas a entregar tus anhelos
y tu pasion por lograr
ir más alla
donde nadie jamás llego

donde hay sombras
hay también color
donde el odío se oculta
hay también amor

hoy puedes hacerlo
si lo intentas otra vez
debes dar, todo lo bueno
que en ti lucha por crecer

ven, dame tu mano
juntos estamos
descubriendo una razón
solo así, veremos un día
un mundo nuevo
donde siempre brilla el sol...

Posted by jlsumich at 03:33 PM | Comments (0)

May 15, 2007

An Empty House

I’m all alone in an empty house.

Ben’s gone and the car is not in the driveway. I sit in silence at the kitchen table and hear nothing but the sounds of the birds chirping outside the window and the planes rushing overhead.

Someone I know is probably in one of those planes. Someone I know is probably up there.

And as I sit alone at this kitchen table, eating my eggs and drinking my Jamaica, I think about my time here; more specifically, I think about what got me here in the first place.

I think of Señorita Hernández.

I think of my high school Spanish teacher with overwhelming gratification—how she first introduced me to the Spanish language back when I was in middle school and how she taught my final class of Spanish before I entered into college.

And I think that perhaps, had it not been for the nice person that she was (and still is), I wouldn’t have been so eager to continue with my Spanish education—I wouldn’t have had the same “rush” to learn a new language, to learn of new cultures.

As I recall my AP class, I also think of all the grammar that we learned—pluscuamperfecto, presente perfecto, subjuntivo, etc. It all seemed so terrible at the moment; now I see that studying grammar was so worth it.

Thanks to Señorita Hernández and the material that she presented us with, I came to México with a much more advanced vocabulary than most other American students here; I came with much better preparation in conversational Spanish.

It would be a shame to leave México without thinking of the preparation that got me here...

Posted by jlsumich at 02:02 PM | Comments (0)

May 14, 2007

The Hunger Artists, the Fire Thrower, the Painters, and the Musicians

Since several of my American friends have left, I’ve been passing a lot of time alone in the Centro, taking things slowly. My workload in the UADY is coming to an end (so I don’t have all that much to worry about in terms of homework) and I’m not planning on taking any more trips. So, I’ve decided that “people watching” would suffice for the time being—“people watching” and picture taking.

The Hunger Artists

I’ve been sitting in the Centro a lot and have been watching the Cathedral. Although walking into the Cathedral can certainly be interesting (you get a chance to see the monumental statues and paintings, the high triumphal arches and the dome), watching the outside of the Cathedral is equally as entertaining. Because sometimes, what people do as they walk along the outside of the Cathedral is just as important as what goes on inside; it can give a good indication of how people treat the building and its importance in the city.

I sat watching for a long time—for over an hour. People passed making the sign of the cross—singles, couples, whole families. There were businessmen in business suits and women in their ypils, groups of tourists and groups of con artists, all doing the sign of the cross. I watched as a woman took a bag of rice and threw it high into the air, capturing the attention and stomachs of many, many pigeons. And I watched the poor people—the “hunger artists”—in front of the church. I watched as they begged for money in front of one door and then, when nobody was around, ate a quick piece of food that they were hiding beneath their shirt. I watched as one woman was fashioning a patch on her eye to pretend (if it actually wasn’t the case) that she was blind. And I watched as the hunger artists traded seats and facial expressions with one another; they moved from one portal to the next, cocking their head a little to the left—no, a little to the right—and shuffling the coin cups between their right and left hands.

While I don’t doubt that many of them are poor, I do believe that there is an artistic element to their begging. Often, it’s hard to tell exactly just how poor these people are.

The Painters

After Erich left, I went to El Hoyo, the café, to use the wireless internet. While I was there, I saw the artist that does finger paintings once again; I had bought one piece from him a while ago, back when I went to the café with Erich, Dianela and Carla. There were very few people in El Hoyo and so I sat at a table very close to him, watching his work and his methodology.

While most of his paintings look very similar (and he’s probably had a lot of practice making them) I give him credit for creating them so quickly, while holding a conversation at the same time.
I still am confused, though, as to what people do with his paintings.
He came over to my table and asked me if I wanted to buy another one and I thanked him but told him “no” and he moved on.

Just yesterday, I saw him sitting outside the 7-11 near the Centro and he recognized me…it sort of makes me feel good that people recognize me out of a crowd—even if he is a painter that I didn’t buy anything from.

I met another painter, too, the other day in the Mercado. I decided to enter into the Mercado, just for the sake of passing the time and to see if I could buy anything real cheap. I came across a woman repainting statues for churches—figures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, St. John and the Apostles. Not only was she repainting the figures, but she was also widening the figures by dipping her hands into wet clay and smoothing her fingers around the edges of the base and working her way upward.

I stopped to talk with her for a while, because I was interested in her work. And, I didn’t come across many people practicing the same craft in the Mercado. She told me that the store was owned by her husband’s family and was first opened generations ago. She showed me her technique and let me take some photographs of her working. Her work was so difficult, but she made it seem so easy.

The Fire Thrower

As I walked back from El Hoyo that one night, I decided to take the long route home, since I’m not in a rush to be anywhere and I don’t have much else to do. I walked past the park of Santa Lucia, where I’ve been many times to see Thursday night concerts and to eat lunch on Sunday afternoons. And it was in the park of Santa Lucia where I made my first phone call to my host family; I remember stuttering on my phone to my elizabeth and then to my family in broken Spanish, in the early afternoon of January 1st.

As I passed on the sidewalk, I saw a man twirling sticks of fire into the air; it looked like something you might see in a circus. He was doing a lot of tricks—behind the back, under the knees, over the head, etc.

And as I passed, I thought to myself how tranquil everybody was in the park. Nobody was complaining, nobody was even watching. As I passed I thought to myself how I would never see a man throwing fire around in the United States. People just don’t freely get to practice talent where I live, the way they do here in the streets of Mérida.

The Musicians

When I’ve gone to the Centro more recently, I’ve also seen an overwhelming number of musicians—the man that plays the saw outside of the ice cream shop, someone blowing into seashells in front of the Cathedral, a group of students playing the drums right by the flag in the center. I’ve watched them all—and I’ve watched the people’s responses to them.

More recently, I went last night to the Monument of the Patria on the Paseo Montejo for a concert. The woman that sells me lunch every Sunday in the park of Santa Lucia told me yesterday that the Cumbia Kings were in town. The Cumbia Kings are a group lead by Selena’s brother and are super-popular here in Mérida. I decided that I should go see them.

I walked to the Paseo Montejo and entered into a chaotic swarm of people; I was a bit confused what exactly was going on. But soon enough, I learned that the street was shut down for Ivonne Ortega’s party, the gubernatorial candidate for the PRI party in next week’s elections. The political party was hosting the concert and it seemed like a good tactic for convincing people to vote for Ivonne next Sunday.

The group was excellent—I stayed for quite a while. I watched them sing. I watched them dance. And I listened to them mention Selena’s name over and over again. It’s interesting that about 15 years later, she remains popular in the hearts of Mexicans, despite the constant change and advancement of the music industry.

The last few days have been quiet ones, but I’ve been able to get a good look at a lot of talent here in Mérida. And I just wanted to sort of capture it in my blog…

So late at night when all the world is sleeping, I stay up writing…

Posted by jlsumich at 03:38 PM | Comments (0)

May 09, 2007

The Letter that was Never Received

Dear friend,

I arrived in Mérida in the early morning of January 1st, 2007 with little foresight of the coming months and a lot of heavy baggage on my shoulders. I came with few expectations and high emotions, excited to finally study abroad.

Those five months have all too rapidly disappeared; I’ve had the opportunity to greatly improve my Spanish, learn a lifetime of knowledge, and see the world at a different angle. And I’ve been fortunate enough to pass this time with some incredible people, both Mexicans and Americans.

Friend, you might say that we’re just students studying abroad, but the fact is, I see things differently. We’re travelers, adventurers, and learners. And from every great traveler, from every great leaner, is born a seer and a conjurer, to whom everything becomes a sign in his magic crystal ball—the pebble on the beach, the melted ice cream, the bird in flight. It is the traveler and not the student who explores the outer depths and the inner self; it is the traveler who is embedded with the powers of the human eye and the human heart. And it is he who makes great discovery by losing himself and by staying lost, by embracing culture and people to write his own yet unwritten story.
`
I thank you for helping to write my story, both as a traveler and as a friend. I’ve walked life on a tightrope of high morals and values with few people to stand beside me; I never thought that here in México, I’d find a friend to walk with—someone that I identify with in so many ways and find myself being different from in so many more.

You see, the real meaning of this experience and of my story, friend, has not been formed by just our travels. It has come from our conversations together. Through the flames of talk by the fireside and the shade over under benches white, I’ll remember our conversations and pack them up with me to take back home. I’ll remember sitting talking for hours over the same subject for the first time in my life. And even when we did reach disagreement due to the differences in our backgrounds and opinions, we’ve always left agreeing to disagree.

And so, as a person who’s self I’ve come to respect, I pose one last question to you: how do YOU think we, as travelers, should measure these five months? Should it be in the food that we’ve eaten or in the music that we’ve listened to? Should it be in the things we’ve learned, the things we’ve read, or the people that we’ve spoken to? Should it be in the love for our families both here and in the United States? Or should it be in the friendships we’ve made, the conversations we’ve had, and the places we’ve been to with others?

How do we know if we’ve made the most of our experience as travelers?

As days draw near, I hope that you too, will do some reflecting as I bid you one final “salud”— to new landscapes and new eyes, and for having the chance to return with more memories and ideas and insight than we carried when we first arrived. Thanks for teaching me things I never knew before and for listening so intently.

I may have come with no one, but I’ll leave at least having made one good friend.

Thank you.

Because remember, ------, that no good story is ever written alone.

I wish you safe and happy traveling as you head homeward bound.

Jason

Posted by jlsumich at 10:00 PM | Comments (0)

May 08, 2007

The Other Libra and the Almost Expired Boyfriend

The goodbyes have started and the first to leave was Rebecca.

When I first arrived here in Mérida and we had our meeting at Elizabeth’s house early one morning, I was put in a bit of an uncomfortable position—I remember sitting in her living room staring at all the other students in my program.

“What am I doing here?” I asked myself. I looked at all of them and realized just how different they all were from me. Where were the students interested in learning about culture? Where were the brilliant thinkers of tomorrow? Could I ever be friends with these people?

Five months later, I realize that perhaps my initial reaction was a bit shallow. While I won’t say that Rebecca nor any of the other students in my group have been my best friends here, I will say that we have shared some great times together.

And I primarily thank Rebecca, the other libra, for being a part of the memories that I have of my group.

We don’t share many common morals or values, we come from totally different parts of the country that operate very differently, and we come from very different types of schools. But out of the differences that have divided us and will continue to divide us, it’s laughter that has drawn us together.

We’ve laughed about her being from Kentucky and about my New York “put on attitude”, about Elizabeth’s wild tales, and about long bus rides to nowhere.

Rebecca has taught me that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover—that sometimes, below the surface, there’s more than what we initially realize about a person.

Everybody has something to offer.

The fact is we see what we want to see, we give and take as we please.

Through the nonchalant, couth, and rebellious attitude of Rebecca, I’ve grown as a person. And so, it was with great respect that I bid her farewell at her despedida on Sunday night.

Ben, Rebecca, and I went together to the Centro to watch a movie in Spanish and to eat for the last time in a loncheria. We spoke generally about our time together here in Mexico, about the things we’ve learned, and about the things we’re going to do when we first get home to the United States…

And we shared many laughs of Daniel, Molly’s Mexican boyfriend that (as Rebecca noted) is “4 days short of expiring”—that is, they’re relationship will be forfeited by the end of the end of the week. Though frank, her words have been truthful and thoughtful.

With un abrazo, I thank you, Rebecca.

Posted by jlsumich at 11:57 AM | Comments (0)

May 07, 2007

Telling Stories

“All human beings have an innate need to hear and tell stories and have a story to live by….Religion, whatever else it has done, has provided one of the main ways of meeting this abiding need.”

–Harvey Cox, The Seduction of the Spirit

On Sunday morning, I went with my host mother to church for Mass services. While I haven’t spoken about it all that much on my blog, going to church with my host mother has been an important part of my experience this semester. Not only has it given me the chance to sense a strong religious community present here in the Yucatán and learn more about the Catholic faith, but it has provided me with a time to talk to my host mother one-on-one.

Ben doesn’t accompany us to church and so it’s during our Sunday morning rides that I can speak a little bit more freely, speak a little more Spanish, all without interruption.

When I sit in church with my host mother, I do a lot of thinking—a lot of reflecting. It amazes me that the services are full every time I am there—men and women come, whole families, and students my own age. I look all around me, observing not only the people, but the building itself—the plain walls, the high ceilings, the depictions of religious iconography at every angle.

I do a lot of listening as well; I listen to the words of the Sunday morning prayers, to the greetings that Yucatecans give to their fellow church members, and to the sermon of the priest.

The priest speaks slow and clear, so I understand him very, very well.

He speaks words of high morals and values, of troubling times in Mexico and in the world abroad, and ways in which we can strengthen our community. And he speaks a lot about the importance of friendships.

There’s something very real about going to church in the Yucatán—it’s not at all like those t.v. evangelists. To be honest, I don’t really believe that god endorses t.v. evangelists. Going to church with my host family is peaceful at the scene, pleasing to the senses.

Because out of the words, sights, and sounds that are, I’m learning a lot and deepening my respect for others.

Posted by jlsumich at 06:30 PM | Comments (0)

Mensajes de Mi Cell (Parte II)

(as they appear on my cell phone)

Coming to say goodbye.

Sorry, diana said program people only.

Almost.

I’ve been so focused on getting the hell out that I didn’t think about how much I was going to miss u. and I really will. Ur existence has saved me in this country.

Me parece genial. lo del viernes sigue en pie? Para confirmar. Cualquier cosa me avisas.

Me gustaría platicar una vez mas.

5 min.

Oye, a ti te faltan dos semanas, verdad? Que rapido paso el tiempo, y como te sientes, estas triste? O ansioso por regresar?

Hi Jason, i just wanted tos ay hi. What are you doing? Im “working” in Sam’s.

Molly and I are at Bens concert. Its so scened out. u should check it out.

No para beisbol, que son los postres y donde, cuando quieres probar, si nos vemos a la cathedral a 10.

2 min.

Dianela y aaron van a estar esperandote en la catedral creo que se van retrasar 10 minutos. Yo los veo después.

que haces esta noche? Quiero ir al centro para live music.

No mas preguntas. No tengo mucho credito mas.

si porfa, empieza a 6, direcciones: calle 80, #500b, x 59 y 61, en el centro

6 erich knows better details

7.5 min.

yo que pedo

wud it be totally unacceptable to wear shorts bowling, bc its still too damn hot for pants.

Oye, no voy a ir a la uady hasta 330, pero te llevare la maleta el jueves

Crepes tonight, 7pm… its close 2 supermaz. Go up c col 2 blocks on smaz side, then turn rt behind lib porrua. Its on 31a bw 36 n 38.

Hemos estado en el cenote desde las once. Van a venir?

Wait.

hey all – 4 tomorrow how bout crepes @ 60 and circuito? for a change – margarita says its awesome. If you object, respond w alternative b4 5, when I tell jefa E thats what we decided.

I am home. I cant see sara being so much of a coldhearted witch as to turn away a fellow Rutgers student. In any event, im sure the front lawn is fair game.

Bummer man, so they kill the poor bastard, eh?

Not worth it!

Soon.

Just to say I was going out with Christina if you wanted

Si! Y espero q los minesotans no te hayan hecho mucho daño pq quiero q nos visites este verano.

Ok, I feel bad about not going but Im really glad that u found someone else, can we still b friends?

I JUST BOUGHT A HAMACA MATRIMONIAL! Its so big and my host mom just told me what I think was a dirty joke about hamacas. That’s all for now.

DULCE.

Sorry, but I’m going somewhere on the Caribe.

que pasa husone?

Are you in the right seats? Look up, we see you.

Posted by jlsumich at 06:26 PM | Comments (0)

May 05, 2007

Colegio Americano

Friday morning, 9:45 a.m.: I rode the bus for the last time to El Colegio Americano, where I’ve been instructing classes in English for the past few months.

Cuando llegué a Mérida hace cuatro meses, nunca en mi vida he tenido la idea que existiría la oportunidad de dar clases en inglés, sino para el servicio social. Cuando Erich me mencionó que su elizabetha, Deanna, lo dio la información sobre el Colegio, me llamo atención mucho—es que en los Estados Unidos, hacer servicio social para la comunidad es una prioridad, una cosa que yo creo es muy importante en la creación de una convivencia amigable y próspera entre la gente. Aunque no quiero ser maestro, tengo interés en el sistema educativo y los métodos impuestos para el aprendizaje del conocimiento. También, creo que hay que tener la conciencia de escuchar diferentes opiniones y perspectivas, porque eso es lo que avanza los pensamientos de una persona. Entonces, me di cuenta de la posibilidad de aprender de los estudiantes más jóvenes que yo. Y, además, era una posibilidad de trabajar a lado de mis compañeros de la UADY—los otros estudiantes extranjeros como Erich, Karina, John, Matt. Por estas razones y más, trabajaba.

Trabajar en el Colegio Americano fue una experiencia—especialmente porque conocí otra parte de la sociedad yucateca—los niños. Y aunque al principio fue difícil para ganar su atención y su respeto, poco a poco, llegamos a ser amigos. Hablamos sobre muchos diferentes temas, incluyendo la relación entre los Estados Unidos y México, aspectos propios de la cultura y también me dieron muchas recomendaciones sobre lo que debo ver acá en Mérida.

Y quiero decir que los otros maestros en El Colegio Americano, estuvieron super-amigables y divertidos. Nosotros reímos juntos mucho antes y después de las clases y con ellos, también, tuve muchas conversaciones sobre la vida en los Estados Unidos. Los ayudé con su inglés y me ayudaron con mis problemas de español.

Entonces, tengo nada pero buenas, buenas memorias de mi experiencia en El Colegio Americano. Doy muchas gracias a Erich para informarme sobre El Colegio, y a los maestros y los estudiantes allá.

I left sad to know I wouldn’t return, but happy to know that at least I had helped a community, one that’s not even my own. To me, that’s the real meaning of community service.

Posted by jlsumich at 05:43 PM | Comments (0)

May 04, 2007

Letra De Limón Y Sal & Photos of Homún

Letra De Limón Y Sal, Julieta Venegas

Tengo que confesar que a veces no me gusta tu forma de ser luego te me desapareces y no entiendo muy bien por qué no dices nada romántico cuando llega el atardecer te pones de un humor extraño con cada luna llena al mes.
Pero a a todo lo demás le gana lo bueno que me das sólo tenerte cerca siento que vuelvo a empezar.

CORO:
Yo te quiero con limón y sal, yo te quiero tal y como estás,
no hace falta cambiarte nada,
yo te quiero si vienes o si vas,
si subes y bajas y
no estás seguro de lo que sientes.

Tengo que confesarte ahora
nunca creí en la felicidad
a veces algo se le parece, pero
es pura casualidad.

Luego me vengo a encontrar con tus ojos y me dan algo más
solo tenerte cerca siento
que vuelvo a empezar.

CORO

Solo tenerte cerca
siento que vuelvo a empezar....

Photos de Homún

With Friné and Erich:

Into the Cenoté with Rachel:

With Dayna, Erich and Rachel:

After being tormented without my glasses:

Friné in style:

With Armando, a boy we met:

With Dayna, lying on the car roof in the hot sun:

Ranch in Homún:

Friné, our host:

Dayna and I saving Charley, the dog:

Posted by jlsumich at 05:43 PM | Comments (0)

PlanetBowl

Writing of Merida, John Lloyd Stephens commented in 1841, “One fiesta was hardly ended when another began.” And in these last remaining weeks, I feel as if his comment has become a sign of the times; one good time seems to roll into another.

Things are moving quickly here; the days are passing by and the experiences are as well. Last night, I went to PlanetBowl, the local bowling alley with a big group of students—Mexicanos and Americanos alike, and we passed the evening together. It’s fun to have these experiences, not only because we’re getting to see parts of Merida that we haven’t before, but because we’re passing them together, as a group. I never thought I’d have the opportunity to bowl (and play pool, as we later did) with Mexicans and talk and laugh and take photographs. And the whole night really felt comfortable doing so.

When I think about bowling, I normally think of spending time with my high school friends—whether it was during vacations or the long dog days of summer. And with those thoughts come warm feelings of friendships and relaxed attitudes—no stress, no worries, and no reason to leave early. And last night, I felt those same feelings over again. I felt those same feelings with people I have met only in the last few months, with some who don’t speak any English— people who live a life much different than my own.

And although I bowled rather terribly, I left feeling satisfied to think such thoughts and feel such feelings.

Posted by jlsumich at 05:33 PM | Comments (0)

May 03, 2007

A Woman is a Citizen Who Works for Mexico

A woman is a citizen who works for Mexico. We must not treat her differently from a man, except to honor her more.
–Adolpho Lopez Mateos, former President of Mexico

Our Antropologia Mexicana classes have nearly come to an end, yet we still continue to have interesting conversations about Mexican society—I’m learning things that I’ve never taken the time to think about before.

Our final unit in the class is discrimination and we’re specifically focusing on discrimination present here in the Yucatan. On Tuesday, we discussed the role of women in Yucatecan society and their marginalization; to start off the class, Eugenia presented us with a video directed and published by a student of the UADY, in which he interviewed numerous different women, questioning them about how they view the role of women in Mexican society. We saw testimony from a Mayan woman, a mestiza, women from other parts of Mexico, and from an American living in Mexico.

While Mexico might claim to be an equal-opportunity society, the women all affirmed that such a claim is not the case; most women are often confined to work in the home and are often stigmatized for expressing interest in leaving la casa.

The women that do leave their homes, however, weave different lives. We discussed in class which women in Mexico are most likely to leave the home and work—those that live in a more liberal, educated city (like Merida), where the chance to find employment is probable. Or on the flipside, do women that work come from conservative, culturally-macho, poor pueblos, where there is greater need for money?

Ultimately, we decided that working women don’t fit into one class—they transcend multiple classifications and extend through all parts of Mexico. But all of them still are presented with unbelievable challenges and great difficulty, regardless.

We listened in the film to one woman that left Mexico for the United States, for the sake of finding a job. She worked for many years in the United States and earned a high level of education. When she returned to Mexico, she was ridiculed for having such credentials and was declined opportunities. Eventually, she fell back into the same destitution in which she started.

Another woman left Mexico for the United States as well. She found a job and sent money back to her husband and her children on a monthly basis. After years, she returned, only to find that her husband had found and married another woman—one that was better suited to cooking and cleaning. The family—including the woman’s own parents and siblings, had been using her money and had decided not to accept her back into the family.

The conversation was an interesting one—interesting and at the same time, a little bit sad.

Posted by jlsumich at 05:30 PM | Comments (0)

May 02, 2007

About Dayna (or “Trip to Homún)

I’ve had the opportunity to meet a lot of people here in Mexico and certainly a lot of diverse people at that.

On Monday, Friné and Monica, two Mexicanas, invited us to their friend’s house in Homún, a small pueblo southeast of Merida. I had such a great time with the two of them in Chabihau in March that I wanted to go with them again.

Friné and Monica invited four of us: Erich, Dayna, Rachel, and myself; we went by combi to the pueblo. While we were there, we swam in a cenote which ended up being a lot of fun.

I decided that taking off my glasses was probably the best thing to do, because I wanted to swim far out into the cenote; I didn’t want to take the chance that anything would happen to my glasses. But because I took them off, I could barely see where I was going. The group thought it was really funny (and I didn’t mind) that I was walking around tripping over people, swimming into rock walls, and talking to giant stones (which I thought, from a distance, were actually them) But I did get to swim far out into the cenote (which was bigger than almost all the others I’ve been to) and we had ended up having a really good time. Erich tried jumping me once or twice, but I evaded his plans; Rachel tried sneaking up on me as well. Actually, he did jump me once.

And, at some points, I was playing along and over-exaggerating my blindness so that we could just all pass the time laughing and enjoying ourselves. Because there probably wont be any more opportunities to do so.

I decided to stay overnight because my trip to Ek Balam was cancelled and because I was having such a good time.

In the morning, we went to a ranch that the Mexican’s family owned. We got to see the animals and the henequen that was being grown on the property. It was an opportunity that I haven’t had in a while.

And later, we returned to the cenote once more.

The trip was a lot of fun—not just because I was able to leave Merida and do things that I’ve rarely gotten the opportunity to do, but because I was able to spend some quality time with some great friends.

And if there’s something that I’ll always remember about my trip to Homún, it’ll be the great laughs I shared with Dayna. Dayna is such a funny person and made me laugh the entire time; she’s a student at Muhlenberg University and is from Connecticut—in a way, we can relate a lot to one another, because we come from a similar American culture.

People with Dayna’s personality are few and hard to come by; she did some great Jewish New Yorker impressions (kind of like Fran Drescher in “The Nanny”) and really pinpointed some of the funniest aspects of American culture (that we as Americans might overlook) to explain to the mexicanas.

Both Dayna and I also have a love for animals; we spent time caring for the dogs, touching the pigs, and taking lots of video footage while the others were inside.

On the way back to Merida from Homún, I sat next to Rachel in the combi. We had an interesting talk about how our views on Mexico have changed after living here. And a good point that she brought up: it was wrong to anticipate anything before coming to Mexico. It’s never a good idea to make any assumptions about another culture or another country, because the fact is, you just don’t know until you’re actually living in the culture—in the lifestyle. I really think that was a wise point that Rachel brought up.

So overall, it was a really good experience and I’m really glad that I did stay overnight.

And I really thank Dayna for making us all laugh a little bit.

Posted by jlsumich at 06:03 PM | Comments (0)