From DC al DF

Generally speaking, I fly in a Dramamine-induced coma. I’ve been known on multiple occasions to wake up after a landing and ask my neighbours when we’ll be taking off. Last weekend, though, despite academics-induced exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep on our flights to and from the DF - or the Distrito Federal, better known as Mexico City. Thus, a friend and I ended up reading Virginia Wolfe’s “A Room of One’s Own” aloud to each other. I am now convinced that to share a book with someone like that is one of the most intimate, delightful things you can possibly do.

We flew in and out of Toluca on Interjet, an airline that hands out free beer, tequila and rum with your juice and has the most spacious cabin I’ve ever seen. Taking the bus into the DF from Toluca, the very first things I noticed about Mexico were that 1) some of the buildings were tall and glassy and clean and 2) there were trees. Neither of these things being particularly common in Juarez, I was immediately struck by the differences between my temporary Mexican hometown and the nation’s capitol. In Juarez, for example, the sky is blue. In la Ciudad de Mexico, the sky is a peculiar shade of orange-pink smog-induced haze. And, beyond the clear presence of international commercial giants (such as HP and Wal-Mart), el DF can also lay claim to the most beautiful post-Conquest architecture I’ve seen.

Another wonder of the DF that captured my heart: the most rapid, frequently and regularly running Metro system imaginable. Chilangos – or residents of the DF – are right to boast of at least this one thing: that their Metro system is a true gem. Where else could you possibly find pre-Colombian ruins interspersed and preserved amongst a 20th century mass transportation system? Although it does have just as many odd folk as any other public space. One clearly drugged-up child hit a friend and kissed me and, shortly thereafter, two other young men wandered through the cars launching themselves into piles of broken glass, scarring their backs to make a few pesos off of terrified tourists. My favourite moment, though, would have to be when a child hiding from his friends in a box jumped out, yelling “Rarrrrr!!!” and, instead of surprising his friends, terrified one of the other BSP students half to death. Oh yeah, and when the entire system’s electricity cut out thrice in a row with us inside the train. And when yet another train skipped our stop because a rally in support of Mexico’s parallel presidency under Obrero was being held in the Zocolo, the ever-busy, ever-important plaza bordering one of the presidential palaces and an absolutely stunning cathedral.

The Zocolo, conveniently just a half block away from our hostel, was also during the course of our weekend host to a group of indigenous protesters. This would not be so out of the ordinary except for the fact that the women were entirely nude and the men almost so save for a small, most-advantageously-placed poster listing their demands tied about their waists. I have to admit to not really having seen more than a few people entirely nude in my life before. It was a healthy shock, though, I think. There was something refreshing in the unashamed naturalness of the event.

Anyways, in terms of actual accommodations, the hostel was lovely architecturally, although it had so many stairs that my thighs were incredibly sore from climbing them throughout the length of the trip. It was great exercise, though, as was going to Mama Rumba, which is supposedly Mexico’s premier salsa club. I had one partner for three songs straight that made me do multiple dips and quadruple, lightening fast spins. You know, one of those guys who literally dances so hard that you physically can’t see anything or anyone else. It was spectacular. At least until they started playing reggaeton, whereupon we left only to later find three clubs within a block and a half vicinity all playing rich salsa rhythms. My poor soul, it felt torn to pieces – too many splendid choices!

The third night, I stayed in. I earned it, after multiple lectures, a trip to the national anthropology museum, and a failed trip to see the Teotihuacán pyramids. Failed because the bus ride that usually takes 15 minutes took over three hours and, thus, had us at our destination just 5 minutes before the park closed. Like any good adventurer, though, we bared it well. We decided to take an hour-long walking break before getting on a returning bus. Thus, we ambled along the town streets drinking our chelas and nibbling on freshly-baked pastries, wondering what people over the age of 16 do in a town where a plaza gazebo and trampoline provide the only public entertainment beyond a few hole-in-the-wall arcades. The answer seems to be that they leave to be elsewhere. Despite its oddities, though, the trip was not a total flop. Looking out of the window on the bus ride to the village, I felt as if I finally understood why the ancient Aztecs and Maya believed that their land was truly the centre of all the Earth and creation. The fertile, curvaceous landscape of Mexico State was not without reason the home to some of the most prolific seats of female worship. That there can be such poverty in such a landscape…

Aside from that, though, other notable elements of our trip included a tour of famous murals and of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo’s house. Not knowing anything at all about the subjects, I was intrigued although perhaps not quite enthralled. At least not until I saw the letter Pablo Neruda wrote to Frida. My fingertips were less than a centimetre away from the writing of one of my favourite authors. Oh, to have received a letter in that green ink (he always used a green pen)! To have been so admired and respected by such an artist!

Or to have lived on the second floor of the Chapultepec castle. The castle itself is lovely and enclosed in the midst of the largest urban green space in all of Latin America. Such a vision after 4 months spent almost entirely in a desert was, to say the least, divine. This was only heightened by the fact that the second floor of the castle is, itself, almost half-garden. The spacious, comfortable, privacy-conducive layout of that floor, when coupled with the various female sculptures and paintings located throughout the courtyard, made for one of the most sweetly simple homages to women I’ve come across.

Generally speaking, though… I loved the whole experience. I felt incredibly at-ease in the DF. The city is vibrant, noisy, and never static. There is always someone blasting music, always something socially huge going on somewhere. It has all the perks of a capitol city replete with theatres and black street-markets alike. I could actually see myself living in the DF for a while. There is so much happening and promising and bursting with potential in Mexico. Wherever I go, I’d like to be part of such a scene.

Get a kick out of Juarez

Every year a committee of professors comes down to visit the program – basically, to see what their universities’ students are doing and to see some of the border for themselves. And so, on November 1st, students, coordinators and visiting professors got together to discus some of the BSP 2007 experience so far. I hadn’t realized just how much I’d missed and felt at home in a liberal arts atmosphere. I guess it showed, though, since one of the visiting professors told me that I speak like a professional student. If it means more dinner conversations about “the current global phase of catastrophic systemic breakdown”, count me in. There’s something about the whole “inquiry and analysis as lifestyle” thing that I find as exciting as a zip-wire over a canyon and as comfortable as a childhood blanket.

And nowhere but here could that lifestyle have blended so delightfully with a student’s social life as it did at the fiesta given in celebration of the program’s 10th anniversary. Nowhere but here could I – all within the space of an hour - dance to corridas with my Papa, to salsas and merengues with my professor, and to the Macarena, Great Balls of Fire, and Rock Around the Clock with a bunch of fellow students and our 40+ year old Mamas. And nowhere but here would I have been forced to blush through a solid 3 minutes of mariachis singing Las Mañanitas (Mexico’s “Happy Birthday” song) to me in front of 80 people.

My real birthday celebration, though, didn’t come until this last weekend, after a very long week. Academically, it was long because I had to: write another newsletter issue, write a rough draft of my field-study ethnography, research for an immigration policy position paper, set up interviews for research into the economic impact of mono-/multi-lingualism, give a presentation on my field study, and create the third layer to a group mapping project. Which, somehow, all took part amidst my little brother’s birthday party, spending what are usually class-hours chatting sprawled out on a neighbour’s lawn (we left our 4-hour class after the prof was over an hour late), and, most notably, the two evenings I spent with Manuel, a salsa instructor from the UACJ.

On Wednesday we went out for coffee. Or at least planned to before remembering that people don’t go out for coffee here. Instead, he nursed a chela (beer) and I enjoyed a pina colada while we played a rousing 2-hour game of bilingual Scrabble. After that I went with him to watch the Malambo latin dance troupe practice. I filmed their show on Thursday night. This is a serious, formal, well-trained group. They’ve invited me to practice with them. They’re levels ahead of me but they said, “So we’ll make you better” so… here’s to working myself to the point of exhaustion over the next few weeks to drastically improve my dancing skills. Just by watching and dancing socially with the troupe members I’ve learned new moves. None of which, sadly, were used on Saturday.

For my birthday, 11 friends and I (and two complete strangers who tagged along with one of them, whose effect on the intimacy of the evening I was initially less than pleased about) went dancing to eat at Taboo, a place that seems to have more identity issues than your average TCK. It is a wonderful, cushiony world of carpeted walls and low, curtained tables, and is home to delicious Indian/Mexican/Italian/American/French food. On Saturday, this meant having the best cold chai of my life so far, as well as an absolutely divine plate of super-spicy mango chicken served with vegetables over white rice. Other palate-tingling offerings of the evening included the best apple pie I’ve ever had (thank you, mum, for sending it 1000+ miles cross-country!) and 2 3-person hookahs, one a decent apple and one a mixed-fruit flavour that oddly enough felt best blown out the nose instead of the mouth (seriously, it was like breathing silky velvet). Other highlights of the evening included dancing to the restaurant’s bhangra selection and, in keeping with the unwritten rule that says that large groups of women can’t get together without doing at least one incredibly silly thing, seeing how many people we could pass a single pull from the hookah to via a “kiss” before the smoke disappeared. This is, may I just say, quite hard to do when people keep laughing out big puffs of the stuff. Our record, though, was 3 three people.

Anyways, we eventually left Taboo and headed to Ole, where a few of the girls knew the son of the club’s owner. Thus, we end up not just in the VIP room, but in another more private room attached to the VIP room. We got amazing free drinks out of it, but beyond that it was kind of disappointing. The guys said we were boring because we didn’t drink enough, and we thought the guys were boring because all they wanted to do was drink. And as for my actual birthday on Sunday… Aside from doing a little research and having a lovely dinner with my host-family (it was great fun trying to teach them how to use chopsticks and translating their fortunes), I went to my first live professional - real, not American - football game.

I met up with two other friends before the game and together we wandered around the practice fields watching local club teams play for an hour or so. It was great. I’d forgotten just how much I really love watching football, and how there really is something beautiful and magical about the sport. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it generally involves a bunch of atypically attractive men for 90 minutes.

Anyways, it was a decent game. ‘Kind of boring for the first half, but the last 20 minutes of the match were fantastically charged. And oh-my-goodness do the Mexicans know how to cheer. There was an entire section devoted not to the fans of a particular team but, instead, to their “anti-fans”. The calls were vicious. Aside from the fact that I heard more profanity in the last half of the game than I have in the entire rest of my time here, I was particularly intrigued by one call, “se caen por el hambre!” Literally, it means, “They fall because they’re hungry”. Called out whenever a player fell, the spirit of it is that they fall because they’re hungry because they play so badly that they never win and, thus, don’t earn any money and, thus, can’t afford to eat and, thus, they get weak and fall because they’re hungry because etc., etc., etc. Leave it to Mexicans to bring social class considerations into a football match.

Leaving the match, a friend said she couldn’t walk behind me anymore because she hated seeing people check me out. I actually hadn’t really noticed it myself. Generally it pisses me off to no end that any response on the woman’s behalf here is seen as an instigation of further action and, thus, to be left alone you have to walk around with your head slightly down so as not to even make eye-contact with people. I find that, as a social institution, to be incredibly demeaning. It is already a rare and precious thing enough to have a day – or even a few hours or minutes - when one actually feels attractive and confident just as oneself. It is, therefore, great to have a day when I am comfortable enough in myself to not feel bothered by the many whistles and honking and kissing noises and soft calls – when I can walk around with my head held at a normal, self-respecting level. At the risk of sounding arrogant… it feels great to be able to step out of myself (of my fear and hostility) and recognize it all for what it mostly is - men appreciating a pretty woman – and actually laugh and smile at the attention. Which, honestly, has only happened once down here.

But that one time felt like such a release. Because let’s face it: we all want to be appreciated as women. Definitely in more appropriately demonstrable forms, but… well, at the very least it’s damn nice having constant male-advice on your outfits. Just three whistles today? ‘Not wearing those jeans with that shirt again. Lots of honking and a few calls of “Si fueras mia, reina!”? That’s more like it.

Reflections on an Unloved Painting

The piece is Hal Marcus' "Avenida Juarez". I first saw a copy of it propped up against the wall in Anneka's bedroom. She'd found it hidden in the closest while she was moving in and decided that it needed a little more appreciation. I have to concur.

It may look like a work of exotification, but in its details I see some part of each of my days here. There are the children being watched over by loving, tired mothers; there is the old man who needs a cane to walk across the bridge; there are the Indigenous, the hotels, the bars, the stores and the prostitutes catering to tourists; there are the beggars huddled on doorsteps; there is the little boy selling chicles to survive; there is the rich Mexican youth scanning the crowd to see who he can seduce with his American clothes; there, all four of them proud of their conquests, is the guero youth with his morena and the Mexican macho with his guera; there is the sign for the fruit smoothies that keep you going on the hot days; there are the musicians that amble up and down the streets seeking tips for their ballads; there is the pointed but pointless presence of the policeman; there is the bridge, sucking everything northward; there are the cars blasting music as they wait to cross; and there are the mountains and the stars.

Staring at this image that so aptly captures both the tragedy and artistic beauty of this place, I’m forced to wonder… From this place where the harshness of our world’s reality confronts us every day in the same streets we sing and dance along by night… From this place where life’s poignant fragility incessantly reminds us to live to the fullest… How can I possibly return? It terrifies me: the possibility of returning mildly and quietly to a place where facing reality becomes a choice.

Busy-ness

With only 6.5 weeks left in the program, the increasing intensity of our working, academic, and social lives alike means that each week passes by more quickly than the last. And, of course, there is that moment of extreme panic when one realizes that they are poor and have yet to buy a single souvenir for friends and family.

I’ve somewhat reached the saturation-point academically – that moment when you just need to escape from all modes of higher thought about a given subject (in this case anything to do with the border) for awhile – but, in general, I’m glad to have some more time here. At least if recent highlights are any indicator.

For example, the Friday afternoon I spent treating one of the girls who’s having a rough time out to lunch. Later that evening, two of the other girls and I got together to make Spanakopita. Not until after we’d joyfully rebelled against the no-taking-the-ruta-after-dark or no-walking-without-a-male-escort-at-night rules, though.

Once in the kitchen, there was much singing and dancing, and also a fair amount of shouting and laughter during particularly hazardous endeavours to start the most finicky gas-oven I’ve yet to encounter. After hearing the story of an uncle whose eyebrows were singed off during a particularly “successful” attempt at lighting the thing, rather than risk balding ourselves, we vetoed the cigarette lighter we had and ended up setting fire to a bit of rolled-up newspaper and then using that. End result: The food turned out wonderfully and the “flaming redhead” jokes all – quite thankfully - came to naught.

In terms of the present, though... It’s Halloween on the American side of the Border. My boss and co-workers are running around crazily trying to find costumes and candy at the last minute. And me? I have a whole weekend of celebrations for the Dia de los Muertos ahead of me in Juarez, so right now I’m sitting under the tallest tree I’ve seen since San Francisco, listening to the 1.59 gigs of music that I pirated off of friends last weekend.

Also among some of my newer acquisitions – aside from some much-needed trousers (I literally did not own any pants for a solid two weeks) – is a lovely new coat. That’s right, a coat; I bought a beautiful, red, 80% wool jacket in the middle of a desert. I almost feel guilty for cheating on my lovely white trenchcoat – it has, after all, seen me through two Minnesota winters – but, after a year of searching for something a bit less bulky or easily stained, I finally found something that I think Audrey Hepburn would have approved of.

Stocking up on cold-weather clothing, though, was just one of a few chores that’s kept me busy these past few weeks. I’ve done my quarterly budgeting, I’ve worked out my Spring Semester schedule, I’ve finished my summer job application, I’ve worked out winter travel plans, I’ve already finished all of my homework through Monday… It’s been a lot of constant, low-level stress, but it’s paid off in that I literally have nothing to do over the next four days but enjoy my friends and host-family and take a little extra care of myself.

Which I may start doing by curling up with J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace and good cup of PG Tips. …Or by taking a pumice stone to the soles of my feet, which – as can sometimes happen when one walks around in sandals through a dusty, polluted city - have been stained the same shade of brown-black for the last two months. On the plus side, I haven’t had this many calluses since my dancing years; I’ve got heels of leather, baby! And while I still get a new set of blisters every time I switch into a pair of close-toed shoes (my current count is four, including one particular gem the size of a quarter), I foresee spending even more time than usual barefoot this spring.

To step onto a pathway and find the surface cool beneath my feet! Or to feel the soft, cutting blades of new grass between my toes… I dream of green and cold. …Except maybe not so soon with the cold. I could definitely handle a trip to… oh, say, the Yucatan peninsula? ...before returning to below-freezing temperature weather. Which, conveniently, is just what I’ll be doing after the program ends.

Hannah and I will fly out of Juarez the next day, where we’ll have an overnight in Monterrey. From there, we’ll fly to Merida, where we’ll be joined by one of our program coordinators and which will be the base for our travels. From there, we’ll have easy access to numerous beaches along the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean, Chichen Itza (the world’s most visited archaeological site) and various other Mayan ruins, and some prime hiking-in-the-jungle and scuba-diving locales. I think – given my penchants for nature, anything cultural, intense physical activity, and dare I say seafood! – that I’ll be quite content.

Until then, though, I’ll just be trying to stay ahead of my work and cram in as much as possible outside of work. Which, really, shouldn’t be that hard. The Dia de los Muertos celebrations are this weekend, it’s my birthday next weekend, the program’s trip to Mexico City is the week after that, and it’s Thanksgiving break the week after that. There aren’t any major events that first weekend in December, but the second week we have a farewell party for friends and family, the week after that is the program’s closing retreat, and the day after that I fly out of Juarez. Whew.

The Sound of San Francisco

Going to San Francisco for my Fall Break was definitely the right course of action.

After Atul picked me up at the airport – a seemingly simple thing that was, in fact, a hilarious ordeal involving multiple “What terminal are you in?”, “Wait, there’s more than one terminal?”-type conversations - we headed straight for dinner with his climbing buddies. And thank the lord that what could have been a very daunting, awkward situation was, in reality, delightful. I’ve only rarely been randomly thrown into such vibrant, sincere conversation and, well… Izzy’s Steakhouse, the place was called, and oh my goodness did that shrimp cocktail and the strawberries with custard set the stage for a weekend of culinary bliss.

Between hostel provisions and a trip to Trader Joe’s, our daily fare included peanut butter/strawberry jam/cream cheese bagels, bananas, raspberries, yoghurt, gouda, spiced turkey meat, foccacia bread, carrots, hummus, and breakfast tea – tepid, of course, and with an insane amount of cream and sugar. Breakfast was generally eaten in the hostel’s quirky dining hall, where the music selection varied from the Beatles to Bhangra. On Sunday, however, we went the Yank Sing for Dim Sum, which, I honestly have to say, is fast becoming one of my favourite new cuisines. Whoever decided to put dozens of different types of food in little steamers and then whisk them around a restaurant on a cart so that clients could comfortably try 5+ items was a genius. Particular thanks to the inventor of the egg-custard bun. Mandy introduced me to these little gems in New York and I actually went to Yank Sing specifically in search of the subtly sweet puffballs. After some trial and error, the egg-custard buns were found and - most-happily - consumed. So happily, in fact, that I brought two orders of the things back to Mexico with me and have now had an amazing breakfast three days in a row.

Suppers, too, though, were particularly good this past weekend, and sushi and Indonesian food were among the highlights. Dinner at the Indonesian restaurant was especially satisfactory not just because of the food itself - which, between the coconut rice, spicy shrimp, and lamb curry, was great – but also because the restaurant was literally just across the street from our hotel. Which, originally, it wasn’t supposed to be.

It’s a long story, but Atul and I would have had to change rooms in the hostel on our last night anyway so, instead, we decided to pay a little extra to stay someplace a bit nicer. When we got to the hotel, though, we were greeted with “I know it’s been a long day, but…” Enter horrified visions of lost reservations and sleeping in the lobby.

Or not. Because our hotel has a nicer, sister hotel which, at no extra cost, is going to house us for the evening. Enter, instead of a two-bed single room with a shower, a two-room suite with three beds, a kitchen, and a Jacuzzi. And, to top it all off, the new hotel keeps Werther’s Originals in their candy bowl. Clearly, we’ve hit the jackpot.

Which, considering all the other accidents we had on the trip, was quite the relief. Nothing extraordinary happened, it’s just that in the course of our 18-mile bike ride along the Bay, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and through the island, I most-embarrassingly single-handedly succeeded in forever dispelling the myth that dancers are inherently graceful or coordinated. How so? Let’s just say that I somehow managed not only to headbutt both Atul (moving) and a tree (not moving), but also to run into a parked car and street sign. Even with all the mishaps, though, it was really a lovely ride. Eating a picnic lunch by a brook in the hollowed-out remains of redwood tree was definitely a highlight, and it was simply reviving to finally get some exercise. Which we had a little extra of since we ended up more or less winging the last half our journey route-wise and, thus, biking across one highway and up and down one hill with a slope of about 65 degrees. In the midst of all this adventure I found out that, despite not being able to remember the last time I rode a bike, I can still ride hands-free. All in all, it was an amazingly hard, fun ride and, after nearly two months of living in a desert, even just seeing so much green and so much water as we rode by was more refreshing than a paleta on the Puente Santa Fe.


Our visit to Alcatraz, meanwhile, was not quite so physically intense. The ferry rides, of course, were fun, and I enjoyed seeing a new side of American history during the tour. I have to say, in general, that I’m a big fan of the radio/self-guided: 1) you can hear everything clearly and 2) you can switch the tour on or off at-will and thus control your own pace. Anyways, it was just generally a good day for conversation, and it was also nice to stay near the piers afterwards and picnic on one of the lawns affording a clear view of the Blue Angels air show (which we couldn’t have missed if we’d tried and, thus, saw certain parts of thrice during our stay). We also ended up watching a few movies throughout our stay since we were usually rather tired in the evenings from having walked the city’s hills during the day (Mission Impossible, it turns out, is not the most engaging of films. You’ve Got Mail, however, was quite nice, and the four episodes of the British series Coupling we watched had us in stitches).

On a side note, the Border comes with me everywhere now, and I couldn’t help but notice at times how very Mexican California was – from its colourful, hillside-covering residences, right down to its ice-cream carts. Which, we found out, are actually just Michoacana paleta carts - Made in Juarez - with the side-labels covered.

All in all, though, the great scenery, activities, food, and company made for a wonderful trip and, now that I’ve returned to the border, it’s been lovely seeing and catching-up with my host-family and friends again – everyone has that “I got exactly the break I needed” afterglow.

“And it goes on, and on, and on, and…” - AZ Trip Part III

The Mariposa Aid Station in Nogales, Arizona is a small, tented lot behind the Mexican aduana. One to four times an hour, the US Government – which now apparently contracts its transports out to Wackenhut (a private security company with a less than sterling record in regard to its respect for human rights) – drops a bus-load of migrants about 200 metres away from the Border. They then, more or less in single-file, walk back into Mexico.

Once across la Frontera, migrants are greeted by humanitarian aid workers. “Bienvenidos! Pasenles!” It’s an odd thing, welcoming someone back into a country they just tried to leave.

Anyways, once greeted, those who are hungry (about half), thirsty (100%), or injured (about 25%) are ushered into the shade of the tents. Which is where we came in. Some of the students helped document cases of abuse by Border Patrol (not a rare thing, since federally there are no rules they have to follow for detentions of less than 72 hours and most migrants are pushed through the system in under 24). Others helped to distribute water in little styrofoam cups and food in the form a piece of bread with frijoles. Which is where much of the strength of my reaction to the experience kicks in. Because after an hour of tending wounds and sore spots, we were given a nice lunch that included soup, enchiladas, burritos, tostadas, and cola. To say the least, the hypocrisy of it all got to me. Thus the poem in AZ Trip Part II. On the whole, though, our trip to Arizona, I think, is what I will think of as the catalyst to my developing my own sense of politics – of having, for the first, time black and white definitions of what is right and wrong, and what needs to be changed and how.

The intensity of our experience in Arizona was not all political or moral, though. The beauty of the geography itself was stunning, and I would be remiss if I failed to include some of the more joyful and often hilarious highlights of the trip.

Such as when, on Friday night, Hannah had to be taught how to pee in the bushes and disperse her spit after brushing her teeth. Or when, upon returning from a trip into the bushes, Hannah asked Julie, “How’d it go?” and the pert reply was, “It went well. I marked my territory”.

Or when we went dancing under the lights of the Milky Way until we saw headlights coming towards us. Then Nicolina made a mock run for the Border, heading “back home to Mexico”.

Yes, my sense of humour has gotten darker here.

Anyways… Saturday morning was fantastic. We were woken up at 6AM to the sweet sound of Journey’s “Don’t stop believin’ ” being blasted from a truck’s stereo system (thank you, Explo, for teaching me the lyrics). Needless to say, I joined in the early morning dance beneath the palest, most beautiful, full desert moon I’ve ever seen. In just my socks, of course, since I’d hidden my sneakers from the bugs in the tent and I’d put the socks in a nearby mesquite bush in the name of easy-access. Speaking of the tent, though, Jules, Hannah and I definitely made the right choice by sleeping under the stars. Not only because the view was stunning – which the couple of shooting stars we glimpsed definitely helped – but also because Laura hadn’t anchored all of the corners evenly and so woke up with the thing collapsed on top of her. Julie, meanwhile, upon waking up, queried, “I wonder how many ants I ate last night”.

Even being the great proponent of inquiry that I am… Really, Jules, there are some things – unlike one’s politics – that are really best left unquestioned.

Mariposa – AZ Trip Part II

Today’s Word of the Day is mariposa, or butterfly. The image of the monarch butterfly – which every year journeys from North America to Southern American wintering grounds – is recurrent motif in migrant activism and, thus, the Mariposa Aid Station we visited on Saturday is aptly named.

My thoughts on the experience we had there still aren’t very concise, but hopefully the prose-poem reflection I wrote for my Writing in Society class will help you to at least understand what I was feeling at the time.

The White Flag

“There is no reason for us to feel worse today than any other day of our lives”, she tells me. We hold each other and cry beneath the bridge.

We do not -
Can not -
Do not want to -
Understand “Why?”

Today it smacked us in the face. But today is every day. We created the system.

White women tend the wounded. White men do the wounding.

_______________________

We bandaged blisters, massaged muscles, put a dislocated knee back in place.

He had – he was told – a daughter, a little girl, in Los Angeles. He spent one day in the desert. And then was deported.

Another had crossed at Tijuana. He spent four days in the desert. He was processed in Phoenix. He was deported at Mariposa.

And this one… he still hasn’t crossed yet. He’s jittery, and chugging water. Cup after cup, he slakes and prepares for thirst. He hasn’t eaten in three days. And he won’t accept the sandwich being offered to him.
________________________

They give them no food, no water, no medical attention whatsoever. It’s available. But only if you request it.

They call it deterrence.

If they make the crossing hard enough, if we can make it not worth it, we can keep them out of our land.

But this is their land.

___________________

We stare at the wall, a rusted metal thing that looks like a scab someone won’t stop scratching.

It’s ugly. Heinous. Inhuman and inhumane. And, in the end, it’s paper. Words. One person, one people, telling another that they do not belong.

That we will hunt you down with our cameras and helicopters, and when you see us you will be so beaten by this alien land that you will be happy to be sent back.

You will tell the white women who are washing your feet, “No más”. Never more.

______________________

Mejor, “Never more muros”.

Never more the walls that tear us down.

This land of chain-link and barbed wire is a prison.

________________________

“Patrol this”, someone says. We laugh. We want to put it on a T-shirt.

_________________________

Back at camp, I kneel before the broken man.

“Put your feet in the water. It’s warm, it will help”.

We wash his feet, dab them dry, and put iodine on open sores. We cut clean strips of white gauze to size, and then wrap and tape them in place.

He thanks us. We wish him good luck.

And I want to die.

To be the dirt beneath his feet. To give him my tears and my blood and my chapstick. Anything I can.
Anything except the land, which he more than earned, but is not mine to give.

_________________________

“Knowing all this is not enough”, she says.

“There’s got to be something we can do”, says another.

___________________________

I surrender.

The Border Patrol Hosts Border Studies – AZ Trip Part I

Thursday before last we crammed 26 people and their sleeping bags, backpacks, and breakfast for the next 3 days into 2 vans and 1 car. Then we drove four and a half hours to Nogales, Arizona and set up camp on the floor of a mission house run by the most meticulous caretaker imaginable. We literally scrubbed that place on our hands and knees before leaving the next morning and STILL were almost not allowed to return on Saturday night. Apparently we forgot to vacuum the girls’ bathroom rug. May he never find out that we “borrowed” a bread knife for two days so that we could slice bagels.

From there, though, our group split up for all of Saturday morning, with half of us first going to meet with the Border Patrol and the other half first going to the Mariposa Aid Station run by No More Deaths. My group went the Border Patrol offices first.

There I found out that the Tucson division is responsible for the highest number of apprehensions nationwide in terms of both people and narcotics. The patrolmen work one 8-hour shift per day, as well as any overtime necessary to cover the lapse between shifts (for which they receive 25% extra pay). There are about 65-85 agents per shift. Many of these agents are assigned to “still/line watch” positions. Many others work with ATVs, horses, the K9 unit, the Special Response Team, the Tactical Unit, etc. Whatever they’re doing, it is up to the discretion of each individual agent to sign out whatever gear or weaponry they wish to carry with them in the field. When asked if he enjoyed his job, our guide - a plain-spoken, diplomatic agent with over 9 years in the field – said that he likes that, at the end of the day, he can honestly say, “I have a lot of fun… I did my part”. Service in the BP is, according to our guide, a stressful job, but there is also a “generally good morale”.

Before beginning to work, agents must take a series of grueling exams. Over 60% of applicants fail. After this, they then must complete 19 weeks of training in an Academy, which includes the equivalent of 2 years of college Spanish instruction. Additional or supplemental training sessions are also made available after graduation from the Academy. All agents, once trained, are placed on a two-year probationary period.

…I have about 7 pages of notes from the Border Patrol visit, but I’ll spare you the rest of the details and let it suffice to say what stood out the most during our tour was the language and imagery – the hyper-masculinity - of the place. The best example: The “Con el coyote nada seguro, ni siquiera tu vida. No más cruces en la Frontera” poster in the main hallway upstairs. This one is actually a stroke of genious of sorts.

The English translation would say, “Nothing is certain/secure/safe with the coyote, not even your life.” A coyote, for those wondering, is a paid guide that smuggles people over the border. The going rate right now is 1800+ USD. That’s more than what many members of the lower middle class here make in a year. Thus, immigrants are often forced to enter into a form of indentured servitude once States-side in order to pay off their debt, which is itself compounded per annum by a 15% interest rate. If you don’t pay, the gang your coyote is affiliated with will harass, assault, and potentially kill your family members back home. Of course, all this is only if you make it. Which, since over one person a day dies trying to cross in the US, is by no means guaranteed.

Anyways… This poster in particular stands out because the phrase “No más cruces en la Frontera” could be translated into English as either “No more crosses on the Border” or “Stop crossing the Border”. The image accompanying this message was a photo of four immigrants following a guide, with the immigrants’ shadows doctored to take the form of crosses and the guide’s shadow to that of a coyote.

The visit to the Border Patrol facilities as whole definitely shocked us at moments. Mostly because it 1) Reminded us that Migra workers are, in fact, fellow human beings and 2) Provided us with a basis for comparison with what we saw in the Mariposa Aid Station on the Mexican side of the Nogales, AZ border.

For a detailed and well-rounded, multi-perspective account of illegal crossings, read Luis Urrea’s The Devil’s Highway. It can be a bit overly dramatic or embellished at moments, but on the whole it’s fairly appropriate and definitely the most comprehensive work I’ve seen to date. In any event, I’ll try to share my own fragmented experience with such crossings in my next post.

On Falling into a Routine and Shaking Things Up

There are, it seems, a few tricks to living here without losing one’s mind.

1) Sometimes there really is only so much of being treated like an animal that a person can take. Reasserting your dignity – your right to exist as you are – is just fine. Don’t be afraid to be a smart-ass. Border Patrol wants to know what you think about the “immigration problem”? Tell them your father’s an immigrant.
2) Let yourself become bored with the Border. Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass, but it’s the same, lame sort of power-tripping-America-induced pain every day. Bonus points if you can laugh at the phallic statues strategically placed on the US side.
3) Don’t forget that… Oh, yeah, we’re actually here to work! Pour yourself into that creative writing class you’ve always wanted to take.
4) Luxuriate in the 15-minute aquatic wonder that is one’s daily shower. And wash your feet and calves before you go to bed.
5) Take notes on everything. And then ramble about it all over again in your blog. The weekly mental detoxing and the solitude that it entails will do you good.
6) Read a book in your native tongue. ...Or at least pretend to be doing so until you realize that you are, in fact, reading a translation of an originally French, Hindi, or Japanese work.
7) Think of giving out your phone number as an investment in meeting people outside of the program, even if they never call again when they realize you just want to be friends. If they are okay with this, then not only are they an investment in becoming mobile independent of your family, but real keepers, too.
8) Suck it up and learn to enjoy the food. …But still jump on every chance you get to eat fruits and vegetables.
9) Realize that, since nighttime transportation is an issue, sleeping arrangements are flexible. For example, the three-nights-at-home-as-normal, two-nights-elsewhere, and two-nights-with-other-people-at-your-home formula you tried last week actually worked wonders.
10) Keep your eyes, ears, mind and heart open. You can learn something from anywhere, anything or anyone. And be irrevocably changed in the process.

The events of this weekend starkly underlined that last one for me.


I went to my first protest ever on Saturday. The fact that it was my first is kind of funny since I actually helped organize it (I did some of the translation and all of the editing for the press release announcing the event... and then got randomly interviewed by Channel 4 News). Anyways, the problem was that for the past few weeks members of the Chaparral, NM community have been subject to various violations of their civil and human rights alike . The county sheriff and his deputies had, often under false pretences and on the basis of racial profiling, been entering homes without search warrants. They then proceeded to question community members about their identification and, in many cases, went on to demand to see social security cards. In so doing, local law enforcement was taking on the role of the Migra. They either called the Migra in or arrested people themselves and drove them to Immigration detention centres. They pulled children out of school. They deported parents and left the children. They beat people. They spread threatening rumours to dissuade participation in the protest. And then they had the unmitigated gall to drive by the protest in unmarked cars but still in full uniform. The sense of intimidation and insecurity that all of this has created in Chaparral is intolerable. In one week alone, over 142 students were absent from school because families feared raids. And in some cases entire families have not left their homes in over nine days. Imagine, then, seeing over 200 people take the street anyway.

Imagine, too, Friday night, when we danced so hard that we literally shook the ground beneath our feet. Now, admittedly, there were thousands of us (and why not, since it was a free concert by two classic Mexican ska sensations). And, admittedly, it turns out that the plaza we were dancing on was perhaps not so brilliantly constructed over an underground parking lot, thus, by night’s end, leaving all of the cars below covered in a thin film of dust that had been shaken from the roof. But still… There was something rather beautiful in the notion of a rather battered people banding together to become earth shattering. Particularly since this rocking of the foundations was to be metaphorical as well. For while it’s true that a chorus of “hijo de Bush” – “son of a Bush” – got everyone particularly riled up, we danced our hardest to the more forward-looking social songs, the songs calling loudly to the stars with demands for solidaridad, libertad y justicia para todos los seres humanos, for all human beings, para todos nuestros hermanos, for all our brothers.

In short, this place is making me more generally aware and, in the process, politicizing me in ways I never anticipated. The unexpected, however, seems to be a theme here. Example:

After the protest on Saturday we crossed back into Juarez to see a pair of documentaries on Ska and Hip-hop culture in Mexico. It turns out that they were made by Roco, the lead vocalist of Maldita Vecindad which (together with Panteon Rococo) was one of the bands I'd seen on Friday. The craziness of the coincidences continues, however, when we find out that Roco is the friend of a friend of our program director. Thus, we are invited to Roco's friend's mansion for an after-party and the story ends with 7 Border Studies students having a 2-5 AM poolside discussion with Roco and a few DJs from the Distrito Federal about the socio-political art scene in Mexico. Go figure.

PS The Phrase of the Week is "Ando acapella", which literally translates to "I walk acapella", but which, figuratively, has got to be the single most clever and beautiful way of saying "I go commando" imaginable. The phrase applies to a good 6 or so out of the 20 of us so we've become rather fond of it for both its practical and intellectual value.

¡Viva México!

We had a group check-in last Friday to see how things have gone for everyone in the month that we’ve been here. To be quite frank, it was rather depressing. So much of the conversation centred upon the negative, on the frustrations that colour our day-to-day lives here. On the lack of privacy and independence. Of waking up at 5:30 to get to a 9 o’clock class. Of not being challenged in our classes or internships. Of not having gotten to know even half so many new people as well as we would have hoped. Of having identities we may not chose ourselves thrust upon us. Of the sobering spectre of ourselves not having changed either ourselves or the world around us as much as we would have wished.

For me, the check-in was something of a wake-up call reminding me that life is here and now and ought to be embraced to the fullest in all its highs and lows alike. So, rather than keep up my usual habit of using this writing space as a cure-all dumping ground for my dissatisfactions with this place, I think today I’ll tell you all about a few of my favourite things about the Border. Such as…

The daily greeting and farewell kisses from my host family. Late night chats with my host parents. The purples and reds of the sierra in the desert sunrise. The precious chill of dawn and twilight. The fact that lime and powdered salsa make everything – even fruit – taste better. Horchata – a spiced and sweetened rice-milk drink that I had four glasses of the first time I tried it. The underground neglected bar that plays Journey and Sinatra with equal frequency and was built in the 70s to look like a series of caverns. The delightfully cheap illegal street-markets. The time the electricity in the cinema went out for five minutes because of a thunderstorm. The utterly endearing awkwardness of one of our program coordinators dancing. The fact that the International Tequila Festival on Saturday was $8 to enter and, after that, free all-you-could-drink (also the fact that I was the only person not to be hung-over after said event). The way doors are opened and seats given up for me without a moment’s thought. The constant stream of music – whether it be Norteño or the latest in international pop - pouring out of houses, office buildings, car radios, street-side shops, and people’s cell phones. The time I stayed up till 4 in the morning chatting and playing with friends in a park that two years ago was the home of gang wars and, years before that, the bed of the Rio Grande. The stories of Ben Saenz, my very verbal creative-writing professor. The fruit paletas (popsicle sticks) sold in the Juarez city-centre. The amazing kitchen and siesta-friendly couches of Casa Puente, the Border Studies Program’s home in El Paso. The amazing resilience and warmth of the region’s people. The fact that I am no longer startled by ostrich cowboy boots accompanied by Calvin Klein jeans, a satin and leather chaleco/vest over a button-up shirt, and the biggest, shiniest belt buckle imaginable. The sweet, sexy smell of someone who just showered and the great luxury of clean feet. The time we didn’t get into the pool until one in the morning. The hilarity of cramming 13 people, all suffering from an almost hallucinogenic amount of sleep-loss, into a single moving vehicle. The time we spent 20 minutes digging out and pushing our two enormous 12-person vans after they got stuck in the desert sands. The first time I successfully made a joke in Spanish: Everyone knows that good pico de gallo bites/stings/is spicy, right? Well, in a string of brilliantly bad puns… “Pico rico pica” :D. The fact that it was Mexican Independence this weekend and it was, aside from the enthusiasm of Ecuadorians during the World Cup last summer, the greatest display of patriotism I’ve ever seen.

A flag as large as a house currently flies on this side of the border, and I must say that I’ve actually begun to have a sort of affinity or affection the red and green of its bands and the snake, eagle, and laurels of its crest. There’s something in the precise shades of the colours of the Mexican flag that actually, to me, speaks of the Mexican people. There is a richness and a vibrance, a depth and a brightness that absolutely refuses to fade. There is an odd sort of beleaguered acceptance that life will always be hard coupled with the most innocent and jovial of appreciations for the small things. This really is a beautiful people. And so, we spent the night celebrating that beauty, that pride, and all the hard work that has made the small things possible.

We beat a piñata till a thousand specks of confetti got stuck in our hair while the youngest of our host siblings scrambled for the choicest of treats. We sang and danced barefoot under green, red and white paper cut-outs to dozens of corridas. We braided our hair and passed around sombreros and trilled our voices and whistled and shouted. There were the cowboy boots and denim of rancheros alongside the beautiful embroidered laces of full traditional skirts and blouses. We ate tamales, tri-coloured gelatina, and Maseca tostadas and then chased it all down with horchata and tequila.

What people do in jest in the States, people do here for real.

Culture Shock

If our homestay is to be authentic, we ought to receive all the privileges of the average Mexican singleton. Which means that Mom at first insisted on doing all my laundry, all my dishes, cleaning my room, and cooking all my meals. Which – since I’m my family’s first exchange student, I’ve had trouble explaining - are all things I’ve gotten rather fond of doing for myself over the past couple of years. Not that I mind the laundry or the dishes thing so much, but oh my lord had I forgotten since leaving Ecuador what happens if you leave anything out when the cleaning lady comes. One morning it took me a full ten minutes to realize that the deodorant I’d left on my dresser the day before had been “put in its place” in the drawer where I keep all my books.

I’d also forgotten, in general, just how important the otherwise seemingly inane things can become when one is sick.

Like comfort food.

The heavy greases and spices of Mexican food do not, I’ve found, really allow for this concept. At least not when, like myself, you’re accustomed to eating lean meats, and raw fruits and vegetables. And while it is, in general, no fun whatsoever to be so ill that for two days you physically cannot walk, it is even less so when every source of sustenance offered to you only makes you more ill.

I’m alright now, though – still a little dizzy and headachy, but I can sit and stand and move around a bit :). Not that the food thing has really resolved itself quite yet – I still have yet to see a single vegetable other than corn or potatoes in the house – but I think that’s going to take an awful lot of tact on my part and quite a lot of flexibility on my host-mother’s. We’ve been honest and easy-going with each other so far, though, so I have some hope. The dream? Cooking privileges, and to have the smallest drawer at the bottom of the fridge filled with yogurt, fruit, and my favourite omelet/quiche and salad makings; and also to have one of the now-empty shelves in the pantry playing host to walnuts, basmati rice, craisins, Tetley tea, granola, and the makings of stuffed grape leaves.

Outside the house, I’ve come up against a rather peculiar problem which, oddly enough, also has to do with questions of what is - and what is, in fact, not – edible. For however much I might insist to the contrary, people here seem to think that I am.

Example?

- The young man who halfway through the first (and what was clearly fated to be our only and very short-lived) dance decided to nibble my neck.
- Or the 45+ something year old man who followed me from one side of the bridge to the other, making kissing noises and calling me “deliciosa” all the way.

Someone please tell me where the “Best if consumed by you” sticker is.

Or who on Earth decided that men could be treated like animals.

The duration and Degrees of Unpleasantness of border crossings vary erratically and nonsensically week-to-week, depending entirely upon who happens to be the assigned Chief of Customs. This week’s must be – and I ask absolutely no pardon for my language in saying this – a real bastard.

One day’s crossing was particularly brutal. There were at least a dozen men being detained, without protection from the sun, in a chain-link cage about 1 metre wide, 2.5 metres high, and 13 metres or so long. The “express” student-line took an hour and twenty minutes to walk through. In the regular line, a little boy became so dehydrated that he fell, fainting. I don’t think I’ll ever forget his terrified mother’s scream. Or the great contrast in the responses of the crowd – which of its own accord instantly made way for the poor family as they ran for help – and the US Officials – who, even while the paramedics were still working on the boy, began berating the mother, asking her how she could have neglected her child and let this happen. This from the gits controlling the line, my least favourites of which, as of today are:

Captain Savage: Whenever one of the students goes through him, he – thoroughly convinced that there could not possibly be any other view of it – tells us how very glad we must be to “be back in civilization”. On our last day, we plan to give him something his bookshelf is clearly lacking: a book on manners.

Captain America: Whenever one of the students goes through him, should we commit the greatest of treasons and, before declaring our citizenship, instead say, “Hello” or “Good morning”, he yells – even though our ears are 6 inches from his mouth – “Say, ‘American’! Always say, ‘American’!” I would like to get him one of those dolls that says something whenever you pull the string attached to its back. It’s saying? “An American can come from [list of all countries on the two continents, with the US being mentioned between Cuba and Venezuela, just for sport]”.

Captain Power Trip: This one enjoys getting within 3 inches of your face, tapping his cap and sunglasses, and then asking if you can see him. He is also religiously unfair in his direction of the lines, and will advance one person from one queue and then 25 from the next. His favourite crowd control techniques? Hand-gestures so flourished that no one could possibly understand what they mean, and the random yelling of “Stop!” and “You’ll do as I tell you!” and “I can send you back!” to people who are being perfectly cooperative. This one, we think, should be forced to cross as a pedestrian one day when the queue takes 3 hours and the mean Chief is on-duty. The pie de résistance? I don’t think we’ll let him carry any ID.

Alas, in truth, the most we can do is don blank faces for the rest of our time here and then, after our final crossing, flick them all off. I haven’t taken any pictures here yet, but I promise to take one of that.

…Well… Of either that, or of me doing the arms-spread-eagled-“I’m free!” thing ;).

PS. Since writing all of the above I've regained my appetite a bit and had a fantastic weekend that included - in between a candlelit dance party and an absolutely fantastic, free time at the movies - using the entry card to a conference room from my work to break into a rooftop pool. Thus, the new Phrase of the Week is "Todo muy padre". Which means "Everything's great", but literally translates to "Everything very father" :D.

First Impressions

My send-off in Minnesota was, without a doubt, the greatest possible reminder of just how very blessed I am in my friendships.

I came home relatively late the night before leaving, expecting only to finish packing and then get to bed early. Instead, I opened the main door to find Dimitri sitting at the kitchen table, freshly in from Nairobi. An hour later, Sami - who apparently decided at the last minute not to go home to Gaza – comes in, hiding behind one of the housemates. Kacy, too – who I hadn’t seen since December – ran over for a final goodbye. The greetings were so animated that the people living in the flat below had to tell us to quiet down.

Still, after some rousing rounds of poker and delightful tickling-battles and catching-up chats, I was ordered not to leave without rousing my dear friends to say farewell. This was no small thing, considering the fact that I was leaving at 4:30 in the morning and that none of us went to bed before 2. I’ve rarely felt so unconditionally loved, and I cannot even begin to describe how much that final, groggy round of hugs and kisses and “Be safe”s and “Keep in touch”es meant to me. Nor – I suspect – how much it will keep me going in the coming months.

That said…

It’s only been about a week and a half since I first arrived on the Border, and all I can say is that my first impression of this place as a whole is that it is going to quite simply blow my mind. Life on the Border – la Frontera - it seems, challenges all of one’s previous notions of what is what, who is who, and where is where.

For example, our first crossing was from the US to Mexico, and even in our 12- and 15-person vans, with all our baggage, we simply paid our toll and then sped across El Puente Lerdo into Mexico, no questions asked. Which would perhaps not be quite so remarkable if it weren’t for the stark difference between this and the 3-hour long line of cars waiting to enter the US that you see to the left as you speed past with 2 completely traffic-less lanes at your disposal. Having on another day sat in this US-bound traffic with a broken radiator in 103 degree weather, I’ve already had my fill of the automotive experience of the bridges and will from now on be walking across.

So far, my own crossings States-side have ended like this:

Border Patrol, while barely looking at my driver’s license: “Are you a US citizen?”
Me: “Yes.”
Border Patrol: “Have a nice day.”

Or…

Border Patrol: “Citizenship?”
Me: “U.S.”
Border Patrol, while barely looking at my driver’s license: “Have a nice day.”

Maybe being a güera, or white girl, isn’t so bad.

But not all are so lucky. Nicolina, a US citizen of Mexican heritage on the Program was questioned for over 10 minutes at the pedestrian crossing, and Eric – the Juarez-native who has been working with the program for years – gets stuck at the automobile drivers’ aduana (customs) for over an hour and finally has to be rescued by the Program Director, who is furious because she has already spoken with the aduana chiefs on multiple such occasions.

The crazy thing is that just 5 minutes away from los puentes you can drive across the river without a single Migra (Border Patrol) worker watching. Congratulations, you’ve left Texas and are now in New Mexico. But wait, just park your car, walk across a little stone line, and you’re in Mexico. Sometimes I forget which city or country I’m in.

If I can conclude anything right now, actually, it’s that the Border itself is riddled with such confusion and contradictions. At least it seems that way from the outside. I think, though, that living on the Border - o mejor dicho, viviendo la Frontera, living the Border – is really the only way to go about understanding the logic of this place.

To those ends, day-to-day life here – like anywhere else - means lots of studying, host-family-time, and – yes – partying. And, so far, I’m really enjoying myself and – thankfully – finding that all of my last-minute trepidations were for naught. For one, Juarez is nowhere near as dangerous as it’s publicized to be. Also, instead of dressing too attractively, I’m finding that I didn’t bring enough nice clothes. And, hijole, the food! It’s spicy and there’s tons of it, and the staff are all incredibly knowledgeable and supportive, and the other students are all very curious and generous. And as for my host-family… When they walked into the reception with the little girl carrying a bouquet of my favourite flowers I just knew that this Mamá had to be mine.

And, of course, about the dancing thing… Four other students and I went with two of the host-siblings, a Mama, a tía, and an abuela to Ajua! La Rumba. Soft lighting with no ceiling made for a laid-back atmosphere, while the live Cuban music was just chida (particularly great), and the dancers were all experienced enough to leave me blissfully breathless after a single, turn-and-dip-filled dance. It was, in a word, divino.

The Perfect Morning

I woke up late today. Didn’t really get out of bed or my room until a little past eleven. Ended up listening to Norah Jones on the weathered old porch out front while eating Apple Jacks, eggs, and a nectarine. Ended up staying out there curled up in an oversized comforter, reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (yes, that’s actually the title), and sort of losing myself to the sound of the rain and the damp feeling of the wood and wicker furniture. It was just right. A lot this summer was “just right”.

At home, I got to reconnect and somewhat rebuild my relationships with my parents and brothers, though with my father most especially. We ended the summer with what I think will forever be one of my most cherished memories - a moonlit dance in the driveway, Dad singing harmony, me humming out the melody, both of us spinning, smiling for a million reasons.

And after that, there was Explo, which I can't even begin to describe. Suffice it to say that, for the first time, I've made a clear line between myself as an adult and others as children. And that I am infinitely thankful for the great generosity and humour of the staff as a whole. And more tired than I've ever been before. And incredibly calm about the future. This summer as a whole was good for that.

Self-defense lessons have let me regain some of my confidence. Grad school is now – for the first time – a viable option for me. As – I’ve confirmed – is teaching. Preferably at an international boarding school. Perhaps not forever but still - it’s nice to have finally not ruled something out and, instead, to have tried and enjoyed something and found it worth repeating. Which is why I’m 90% certain that I’ll be returning to Explo again next summer.

Aside from that...My domestic/independent side has come out a bit this summer and I’m actually already very much looking forward to having my own place. To choosing where to live (with my Irish citizenship and EU passport papers being pushed through, can anyone say Europe?), to cooking and keeping things as clean as I like… Alas, this is at least a year off and, for all intensive purposes, probably two years away. In the meantime…

I’m off to the Border on Monday and am incredibly excited to be headed somewhere fairly permanently. I’ve changed cities 4 times already this summer, and between this past Sunday and this coming Monday alone I’ll have been on one train and three planes (New York, by the way, was culinary bliss and well-worth the expense if only because I got to see one of my closest friends in their element. The Twin Cities, meanwhile, have been rejuvenating and comfortable, running pre-flight errands has been fairly easy, and seeing friends for the first time in 3 to 8 months has been fantastic).

But beyond looking forward to being somewhat rooted for the next 4 months, my feelings about the Border are somewhat mixed. But I hear that's what the Border's all about. And I guess it means I'm headed towards getting what I hoped for out of the experience, since I chose this program specifically because some part of me wants to be shocked, thrown for a loop, and to have my beliefs and perspective shaken by the marginal and all too often ignored. To - in every possible sense of the phrase - live in translation for a while.

And that’s what the rest of this blog will be about – my life in translation.

Enjoy. The first “Word of the Day” is the name I’m writing under here, Pecosa. It means Freckles :).