¡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.