Independence Day

Things are gearing up for the big celebration tomorrow.  It is the first Independence Day celebration since Mexico’s Bi-Centennial last year.  In what might be considered typical Mexican fashion, many of the celebratory flags and banners from left year were conveniently left out to weather for a whole year.  One might think they were on such a high that they want to celebrate 200 years all year long.  It is time to celebrate again, so all the weathered and forgotten remnants are suddenly in vogue again.  Suddenly though, as I write this a storm has descended on Mexico City.  Perhaps the revelers who have been getting in the party mode for tonight may have their parade rained on…literally.

This could be a good thing though; it may mean we are not subjected to the constant sound of a never ending array of fireworks all night long.

This will be my second Independence Day to observe during my time here in Mexico.  Thankfully, I was fortunate enough to be here when they celebrated their 200 years of independence. It was nice to see how proud these people were (and always are) of their country.  Silly me, I always thought that May 5 was a big deal.  No.  May 5 is only important to college students back home, or to anyone looking for an excuse to get legless.  Why should they make a big deal over a battle with the French, when they could save it up and celebrate being free form Spain, the people who destroyed their ancient civilizations?

The sudden storm knocking tangerines off the tree.

In truth, as the sudden storm sets in and the party people in Mexico City have their evening filled with a downpour of rain and hail, I stand at the door watching ice bounce off the stones and look over to see Tonya, standing in the other doorway with a towel draped over her laptop.  She is trying to keep it dry as she is finishing downloading the season finale of ‘Damages’.  She pulls back inside, pulls the towel off her computer and smiles as she says, “Awesome!  I got it!”  It appears that we will be celebrating tonight too.  We have the final episode of her favorite series. Tonya is thrilled at her photo finish with nature, ‘That was awesome.  I wasn’t getting wet, but I was standing there watching the hail and feeling it bounce up”

I have been questioning myself lately, asking “How do I really feel about being here…and what is the purpose?”  I am tired of this question because it plays on an endless loop inside my head …constantly.  In truth, I think I feel kind of numb.  It dawned on me the other day that I am an observer here.  I move through the city and mingle with the people.  I don’t have any real friends and no real conversations.  I feel lonely when I think about it.  It is odd being away from the people you know and the relationships you have established.  Now, I am just the outsider.

It is the language.  I won’t say it is a barrier, because it isn’t.  I choose not to take it to heart.  A few days ago Tonya asked me, “You have been here over a year and still don’t speak Spanish.  Why not?  Why haven’t you learned?”  For a brief moment I felt stupid at the fact of spending so much time here and not interacting more.  I sat quietly as I drove and thought of her question.  “You know why?  Because I tune it out”, I replied when I came to realize the truth.  “I dislike it so much, that I am able to be immersed in it all day and I just tune it out”  I explain to her that for my whole life in Texas, that being constantly surrounded by Mexicans who refused to speak English you just learn to ignore them.  You shut them out.  Growing up, it was the Mexican kid who held everything up in class because he would not speak English (yet he would funnily enough be in the Spanish class).  It was the non-speaker who got the boss mad, because everything would come to a halt to find someone who could translate.  It was instance after instance of a self-imposed language barrier from the other side that has helped to reinforce the ability to ‘tune it all out’.  Year after year it adds up.  After over 40 years, it is not so easy to change your attitude.  Also, this is definitely not the Spanish you learn in school.  This is 100 mph stuff with ‘R’s that are rolled with such ferocity that it is intimidating.  It is really intimidating for a kid who had to take speech therapy in school because he could not say his ‘R’s properly.  This language is a huge elephant laughing staring at me from the corner of my room.  It is true, I never had a desire to come to this country…and I have already clocked in over a year and a half!  The whole thing seems like some crazy dream.  “Never in your wildest dreams...” could not be truer.

I tell myself I will do better.  I tell myself I will start taking the language seriously.  I want friends.  I want to be able to talk to the tortilla guy, flipping his stacks of hot tortillas into paper, and folding them in a neat stack for his next customer.  I want to talk to the pimply guy who stands on the street and prepares corn in the midst of traffic, horns and in a haze of exhaust.  I want to know what is going on around me.  Instead of just smiling at the cop on the corner and saying ‘buenos dias’ everyday, I want to be able to stop and have a real conversation and laugh.  I really would like to be able to talk to the one-eyed Indian who sells his wares at the market.

Sitting in a café the other day I meet a girl who is a native.  She’s studied abroad and lived in London.  Her English is fine, though she says shyly that she is not that good.  She is amicable and a group of us are talking about all sorts of things.  The conversation turns to “Why did you come here?”  (Believe me, this is a question almost everyone asks…not even counting myself)  Before the answer is given, she is asking a more pointed question, “Why don’t you speak Spanish?”  She cannot understand that I come from Texas and don’t speak Spanish. “Why should I, coming from Texas?  We speak English there.  In America, we speak English…”  Her simple question irritates me to no end.  She adds plainly, “If you are living here, you have to learn Spanish” She seems a bit perplexed.  She cannot see my volleyball sized eyes rolling at her comment.  I pose the question back to her, ‘Why then, don’t the millions of Mexicans in the States speak English?  If they are going to live in America, why don’t they speak English?’  My reply seems to ruffle her a bit and she seems a slightly upset at my retort.  Tonya tries to diffuse the situation in a hurry.  It sets my mind reeling again, and immediately my impenetrable linguistic wall goes up.

It is truly amazing at the number of Mexicans who really don’t know how it is in the States.  They seriously cannot believe it when you tell them signs are hung in Spanish in almost every department store, signage is in Spanish and even recorded messages on the phone telling you what number to push if you want to carry on in Spanish.  At home, in the USA, it is a never ending battle to keep your own language alive on your own soil.  It is disheartening and surely understandable why one would be at odds with ‘wanting’ to speak Spanish.

I carry on as the outsider.  I am the ‘Guero’.  I am used to hearing that everywhere I go.  At least I understand that!  I acknowledge the semi-derogatory term used affectionately.  I am OK with being the ‘guero’.  It is what I am and who I am.  I am the ‘whitey’ in amongst the darker ones.  I am the guy who gets his car keyed.  I am the outsider who gets “pig” scrawled on the windows of his car.  I know what it is to be the one who doesn’t fit in.  I smile and I say the few things I know how to.  I treat those around me friendly and warmly.  I respect the fact that I am on someone else’s turf.

Then something happens that makes me smile, like when the friendly one-eyed Indian smiles and speaks some English to me or when the guy in the market who sells all the spices smiles and waves at me.  I may not know how to talk about soccer with these guys, or how to share a joke with them, but their simple smile and wave does wonders for me.  It is those simple moments which make it all seem OK.  I am not such an outsider after all. 

We walk out of the grocery store the other day and I spot something written on the back window of the car.  I don’t pay too much attention at first.  I am used to the Mexicans writing on our car.  However, as I pull my keys out and start to open the door, I laugh.  I tell Tonya to look at the window.  She glances at the message, “That’s nice” she says.  I can’t control the huge smile breaking across my face.  There, scrawled into the dirt on our back window is a simple message; Buenos Dias Texas

It is an instance like this when I think, “It’s OK”.  I look around to see if perhaps the detective in me can figure out who might have done this, but in a parking lot full of Mexicans going to and from, it could be anyone.  Maybe the author left long ago and just felt like being friendly.  Maybe they have relatives in Texas (good, very good possibility).  Maybe they just saw our car and thought, “Geez, I feel sorry for the miserable gringo sod who has to drive that thing around” and in a brief, fleeting moment they scrawled a simple message that would have a resounding effect one me.  The strangers passing greeting made my day.

To the Mexican who wrote on our car; Thanks for brightening my day, and causing me to pause and rethink my thoughts about your country. You made my day.