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.