Through the Looking Glass

A Word to Paint a Thousand Pictures

The conundrum of writing when multitudes of special things happen;

This is where I stand, making haiku to gather up image and thoughts.

***

Madcap high-schooler, mooning traffic-slowed cars from his school bus window:

What more, besides a timely cellphone call, can make Saturdays such fun?

***

Applying for my Mexican driver's license was easy as pie.

A visa and a payment, a sitting before the camera. Done.

***

A postponed tour of an art patron's frenzied world bore a small world tale:

The kind woman to my right knows a good friend of mine down New Zealand way.

***

Dear friend, Rachel, lands in the City for a week of adventuring.

Next day, my Matrix is towed from Condesa's streets (parking anarchy).

Two rescuing souls in button-up shirts and ties banish fear with help.

***

Taking a taxi to Bellas Artes palace, our thoughts leaned toward dance.

Shen Wei's company left us breathless after their second performance.

***

Matrix, freed from the lot, rolls us up into green, mountainous glory:

Temoaya, where we watched the clouds and listened to clear water running,

And voices speaking Otomi carried themselves across stone and town.

***

Bar Chon: where ant eggs and chrysanthemum petals are served up for lunch.

Simply a good start, for the evening held promise of lucha libre:

A universe of masks, sparks, raised fists and popcorn--nothing, if not fun.

***

Slow, coffee morning preceded night, and my face smeared with birthday cake.

Tradition let me plant a frosting kiss on the cheek of the culprit.

***

A gorgeous day through canals in Xochimilco meant celebration.

I had turned 30, with a thriving sense of wonder still intact.

***

Palm Sunday having passed, we walked through the streets of Villa del Carbón.

Buying fine leather boots, I hoped for miles to go before I should sleep.

Two Things

I was reminded of two things over the last two weeks, as Patricio and I road-tripped through three American states and six Mexican ones. We went to buy a car for me: a very gently used Toyota Matrix at an even more generous father-to-daughter discount. After a year and a half of internal struggle where environmental ethics battled with a need for personal freedom and safer mobility, Patricio and I took a flight up north to drive back with a car that would call the Mexican roads its new playground.

I remembered all the times driving south on Interstate 25, after shopping trips to Colorado with mom and dad when we'd pass caravans of used cars--some hitched one behind the other--destined for El Paso and the country across the border. Legalizing American cars in Mexico, until recently, was much more inexpensive than buying the same thing within Mexico itself. I wondered at the hoops these traveling car dealers must have had to jump through to make the process work. And wondered even more if it was really worth it.

Now I understand that it was, and often still is. There is a widespread fascination in Mexico with owning American cars, not only for the caché that might come with it, but a more pressing delight in getting a set of wheels for a price more commensurate with the low salaries most people have to settle for. Exactly why we drove south ourselves.

And as we drove, passing through the long, dry, menacingly beautiful state of San Luís Potosí, I remembered the trips my family would take to Kansas, visiting my grandparents on their farm. With wheat fields flanking the road on either side, both growing toward harvest or fallow with wild grass, the stalks and leaves always seemed to bow and wave toward the car. I let myself anthropomorphise, imagining that the wheat was welcoming us there, to a place that wasn't home, but still a place where we belonged.

as humanish beings, like desert Ents who, if one was patient enough to watch, might begin to move around wherever they pleased. As if frozen in some sort of exultant dance, their outstretched arms seemed to welcome us back. The Joshua tree had become the new wheat. Though highway-side plants contain levels of lead that only the constant traffic could contribute, I still stifled the chiding voice of "yet another car destined for a city with far too many." I reminded myself that freedom can be a welcome thing, too.

In San Luís, it was hard not to see the Joshua Trees near the highway

Attuned to Tlatelolco

I mean, really. If walls could talk. And if I had the chance to listen to those surrounding just one place here in Mexico, I now know where it would be. I see it as Patricio and I drive home from the historic Centro, I see it misspelled occasionally on posters, I see its photographs on the covers of historical books--I see it in one of the very dearest movies in recent years. And I saw it up close recently, something I think few people in Mexico City do, whether they're here for a weekend or here the better portion of their lives.

The place is Tlatelolco, easily missed if traffic is flowing nicely up Eje Central, and easily one of the places that impressed the Spanish conquistadores the most. Once a sister city to the Mexica (Aztec) capital of Tenochtitlan, it later fell under the Tenoch rule--becoming the city's crown jewel of commerce and, ultimately, the place of its empire's defeat. It is now also known as the Plaza de las Tres Culturas, or Square of the Three Cultures, for the juxtaposition of walls in what remains of that ancient, island city. The archaeological site of Tlatelolco's ceremonial center sits in front of the church of Santiago Tlatelolco, built of stones taken from the pyramids themselves. Rising above and surrounding the two is an expanse of a 1960's housing complex, also flanked on one side by what used to be the foreign ministry building.

In such a relatively small space, the press of historic juggernaut reveals a chronology's glimpse--three culture's represented by their walls: those of the pre-Columbian, the Viceregal, and the modern independent Mexico that still often holds on to vestiges of the former two. This is where Cuauhtémoc, the last of the Aztec tlatoani, or rulers, was taken captive. It happened after tens of thousands of unsurrendering Aztecs died, here in the last holdout against Cortés and his troops. This is also where a number (likely far greater than the government has chosen to maintain) of political protesters were killed in 1968, shot by military and police forces ten days before the Olympic games began. And then in 1985, many of the housing buildings were severely damaged or destroyed, when that morning earthquake rocked the city and left Tlatelolco's walls to witness huge loss one more time.

And so much of what was documented--or could have been--no longer exists. A few buildings are left. The details are gone. And walking through the plaza on a sunny Friday, with traffic running north and school groups milling in the church, makes it difficult to imagine a market close by that rivaled anything in Europe at the time of the Spanish arrival. Or the fear of being under attack, or under the rubble of what once was a ceiling. The church--one of the oldest in the country--remains bare of its altar since the years of often bloody struggle between religion and the state. Its starkly beautiful chancel of high-reaching volcanic stones speaks not only of the most religious of mysteries, but historical mysteries as well; tragedy has been an irreversible part of Tlatelolco's past, but so have an infinity of the smaller miracles of every day life. Juan Diego's baptismal font rests in a corner of the church as well, a symbol of the area's continual rebirth, the continual resurrection of both archaeological treasures and the residents' quotidian dreams. 

Tlatelolco is, I'd argue, one of Mexico City's most interesting treasures. Come see for yourself, with ears--or at least the eyes--attuned to the walls.

Free Range

It wasn't often that I gave much thought to chickens when living in the U.S. I'm sure fond of eggs cooked enough to make the yolks run messy over a slice of toast. And it doesn't take much for the thought of chicken enchiladas in salsa verde to make my mouth water. That said, it's clear that unless I was thinking of chicken as a metaphor for fits of fearfulness, I usually thought of chicken in terms of something to stick in my mouth. Chicken, the bird, was a feathery shadow of abstraction. A time or two, the words "free-range" would come up, conjuring visions of bobbing heads and leathery-claw feet in the tall grass of, say, Nebraska. But free-range talk always happened with a fork near my left hand, transferring the "c" word quickly back from the bird category to the food one.

But the world has turned, and has left me where a rooster lives on the other side of the Shrek-colored stream bank. More often seen than heard, he hurls out his curdled call with a force an opera singer would likely envy. He particularly enjoys crowing out his pre-dawn sets, but an afternoon can just as easily find him bestowing a vocal moment upon the neighbors. And the house catty-corner behind us has their own hen. Less predictable than the rooster usually is, she clucks loud and clear when she's laid another egg. 

Their sound is a daily, if almost constant presence. I can't help but envision them--solid, feathered struttingness and all, because I always see the likes of them with every drive through town, up into the northern reaches of the municipality, like Cahuacán. Pecking about in their animal-cropped yards, and sometimes venturing toward the edges of the packed-dirt roads, they might not be in Nebraska, but they're as free-range as they come.

Chicken means "bird" to me now, as much as it does "main dish," their presence as unsurprising as a tractor driving down a small town's main street. Still, in the enjoyment of chicken or egg, it's the latter that certainly comes first. María, lovely neighbor that she is, sent a dozen huevos de rancho (ranch eggs) our way last week, and their runny yolks have been the crown jewels of my toast. I'd be lying if I said I could taste a real difference; had I not cracked them myself, I'd believe they came in a store-bought carton.

But it's their uneven sizes and their rosy earth colored shells that make me think of them as more than just food. I remember the early morning rooster, and the happy, maternal afternoon hen. And chicken becomes something more. Something real. Something to really think about.

Network for Good

"Oh, my big mouth."

"He sure did stick his foot in his mouth."

"I'm eating my words."

Sometimes expression can come at a price. Mostly, it's benign--a social faux pas that becomes water under the bridge. But expression is still risky, in whatever form it may take. There's a chance that one might offend, and then what will the offended do? Navigating formal and informal conjugations in Spanish-speaking cultures is a familiar expressive minefield for anyone deciding on how to address a person. Tú or Usted? What is the price if I slip? Again, those social situations can be readily smoothed out and rectified. Expression may have its pitfalls, but they often turn out rather insignificant.

But expression can come at a much bigger price, especially for those whose statements reach an important audience, with a message carrying controversy's potential. In Mexico alone, nine journalists paid the price of their lives in 2006 for speaking out about drug-trafficking and social violence. Others are missing. Some are burdened by accusations and threats. Lydia Cacho, having published Devils in Eden and subsequently exposing the involvement of powerful social and governmental figures in a ring of child pornography and prostitution, was arrested without a subpoena, sued for defamation, and threatened to be thrown in jail to be beaten and silenced by some of the very people about whom she had written.

Fortunately for artists, the risks in this country are much less severe, or perhaps they are only less documented. Freedom of expression has flourished considerably since Fox took office in 2000, but the dangers of freely speaking will likely never disappear.

And so it is in too many other countries, to much more worrisome degrees. Fortunately, organizations exist and continue to form with the determination to foster both free speech and safe lives for the speakers. And I'm speaking out for them, directing you over to this page's left-hand column. Beneath the quotes is a heading entitled "Network for Good," and a link to "My Charity Badge." By clicking that link, you'll be directed to freeDimensional's badge, a vehicle for donating to four charities that work toward expression at less-costly price. The opportunity for supporting these organizations is priceless, however, and I encourage you to investigate and choose to donate to their cause. Being connected more personally to freeDimensional Inc., it would be fantastic to see it's support grow.

And the badges that raise the most funds before the end of March will receive matching funds of up to $10,000 from Six Degrees.

It seems that Network for Good is allowing better freedom of expression to come at a monetary price, too. It's worth it. And pass the word on--it can do a world of good.

Raise it High

Don't we just love symbols? Something easily identified, standing in for a different entity, one that is larger and unwieldy when put into words. They can sum up the familiar, and with them, we can construct a world of reflected identity. They can remind us of who we are, and they may inform others about us, too.

It might be a logo. Maybe a cross. A letter, perhaps. Often, too, it is a flag, and this past Saturday, Mexico celebrated its own. That green, white and red banner with the country's coat of arms in the center, the flag we know today is one of the most recognizable symbols of Mexico. Some might say that the Virgin of Guadalupe finds herself as a deeper, more visceral symbol of the country, and she herself even found herself on early Mexican flags--a symbol of those who fought for independence from Spain.

But for me, the flag seen these days over landmarks and city plazas--reaching dimensions of monumental size--and sometimes found in miniature, suction-cupped to windshields, carries a symbol that holds meaning even for me; someone not born to pledge allegiance to what it means.

It's that eagle in the center, wings outspread, the serpent in its teeth and talons, atop the cactus in a small, lacustrine island. It is a symbol not only of Mexico, or of the Mexica (Aztec) people, who upon seeing it as a completion of prophecy, knew where they were to call home. It can also mean something for so many; a symbol of destiny connected with a sense of place.

Other symbols of Mexico were present on Saturday for us, even if Patricio and I don't have a Mexican flag to our name. The morning was spent preparing for a slow afternoon of paella, shrimp stew, opened bottles and sunshine, and the welcoming into our home of the most indisputable of Mexican symbols that I know--the cherished togetherness of family.

Flag day held its own meaning for me on Saturday, having nothing to do with military marches or a particular affinity with red, white or green. Now part of a family, I'm a part of Mexico, too. And that eagle in the coat of arms sure does speak to me of an identity somehow Mexican, of a destiny all my own, connected with a sense of place.

Black Is the New Red

At least two sides: they are there for a coin, a driver's license, a story. Even a point of view can be plural. Such is the case at home since Saint Valentine's Day, or the Día del Amor y la Amistad here in México. The holiday itself gives lip service to two things, similar as they may be, the lines between love and friendship an almost laughable sort of thing to draw.

Patricio loves dogs. Alisa loves cats. Patricio loves Alisa to be happy at home. She is. But now even more so. Because Patricio's love has more than two million sides. And now Alisa will no longer talk of figurative black kittens, the kind blamed for stepping through a mirror into a looking-glass house.

In this story, it was the red Jetta's fault entirely. Parking for awhile at one of the ubiquitous, guilty pleasures of a restaurant, Vips, the bumper slid silently over the blocky, cement wheel-stop. Backing out later ripped the bumper right off; red Jetta was in need of an immediate fix. So we drove it down to what we often call Canutoland, a small triangle of a Tlalnepantla neighborhood, where nine out of ten people are Patricio's cousins of some first or second stripe. Ermenegildo, or Mere, runs a small mechanic shop on one side. He soon had the Jetta jacked up and drills buzzing, busily putting our Valentine-colored car back together again.

Lifting an old tire off to the trash, an employee dumped a dusty and unsuspecting kitten out, blinking into the sun and running fast back into the shop. Patricio saw it happen. Mere told him to take it. Looking up from a book, Patricio lifted the little thing into my lap. He was filthy as a grease-pump. I already knew he was mine. His side of the story might be different, but the ending was the same. He made passenger number three when the Jetta was set free.

We've named him Balam (pronounced like bah-láhm), which can't escape singularity, either. In Mayan, it means "jaguar," a black cat with a job that wasn't dark like its coat. The Balam were Mayan deities who protected people in their daily lives. The jaguars themselves would also protect a community from external threats. My little Balam serves as protection of a different sort, from too much solitude at home, from that need to hold and love another creature unlike myself.

But for some, Balam is also a three-headed demon, a duke of the underworld with all-knowing prescience. In the mornings, with little Balam waking us up by crawling around on our heads, I wonder if this is true, too. At the very least, though, he's as Alice said to Kitty, "A little mischievous darling."

I'm happy as a clam about him, and there are certainly no two ways about that. 

Carving

We all sculpt. Shaping, molding, fashioning our worlds, we may even learn to let a masterpiece take form. Our lives depend on it; the decisions made and the dealing with what happens next. Patricio and I carved out another detail of our own this weekend, hopping into Pedro's blue Mustang and going north toward Irapuato with the convertible top down and the stereo's volume turned most of the way up. I kept my hair from tangling with my gray, cat-eared hat, and we were all kept from boredom by thoughts beat out of wind and unfettered views.

We stopped along the way for gas, then barbacoa brunch, and finally took off on the free highway from Querétaro, driving past cow and goat herders in their fields to a town called Apaseo del Alto. Along the main street, outside the storefront doors, is evidence that residents do more than metaphorically sculpt out a life of their own. Workshop tables are covered with dust and angel wings, wax and tools of a trade. Wood carving defines the town by a common craft, fathers and sons turning roots, trunks and branches into Quijotes, holy Virgins, headboards and sacred hearts.

Leonardo Cardenas made me rethink the word 'workshop,' seeing that the individual elements in the compound word really coexist. Pedro remembered him from many years back, when he and his wife traveled up to buy furniture after reading about an international prize being granted to Leonardo for a carving he entitled "Diosa de la Primavera" (Goddess of the Spring). Pedro mentioned their meeting years ago, and the small, wooden statue that had impressed him and Laura so much. Disappearing into an alcove of a workshop of a room, Cardenas appeared again with the very statue in his hands. Sitting unnoticed on a shelf for anyone to touch, he simply said, "I just don't have the heart to sell it."

Never mind his uncanny resemblance to Caetano Veloso, the man still makes an impression. Unassuming but quietly sure, he talks about his work without either pushing it on a customer or feigning false humility. He has shaped, molded and fashioned a world of folk and traditional religious art. His life has depended on it. A masterpiece has come of it. In a way, being with him for a little while sculpted us, too.

We climbed into the Mustang with new thoughts for the wind to whip and fashion.

From T to V, Sans Screen

Checking into international flights, I've often wondered what fills the suitcase of a traveler. Is the cart of over-stuffed, trunk-sized cases full of gifts for the family in Mumbai? Is that duffel carrying candy, not found on the market in someone's new home base in Hong Kong? What is it that people value enough, so much that they deem it a worthy souvenir or a flavor craved far overseas? What will they sacrifice space for another sweater for?

If the TSA folks in Amarillo wondered at all about my just-under-fifty pound bag, they soon discovered the Celestial Seasonings tea is part of my return-trip equation. Lemon Zinger isn't something I can pick off the supermarket shelf here in San Pedro, and boy, I'd be willing to pack a whole Samsonite with the stuff to grace my teapot back here at home.

But as heavily illustrated and quote-laden those colorful tea boxes are, heavy they aren't. It's another coveted something that puts the pounds into my bag: books. Sometimes illustrated, but most often not, fiction and non is what I most look forward to bringing back from the States.

Good book stores are few here, the likes of Gandhi and Porrúa offering the widest selection of available titles. But books are expensive here, often double the price that the same work will cost in the U.S.--the price one pays when demand is down. Amazon now ships, it seems, through Casa del Libro MX, but our address makes package delivery a dubious enterprise, at best, and the shipping costs almost as much as the books themselves. In Spanish or in English, the right book rarely comes cheaply.

And the right books make keep the world recognizable, familiar, and full of both story and surprise. My suitcase came back with me with books I've read, and many I haven't. Books for friends, books for Patricio, and books for myself--for my groups that I love. Books' magic is that of taking us somewhere new. I'm now taking my own to a new place, to shelves that mean an adventure for them, too. The best part, though, is the places these books have taken me, literally: to homes of generous Mexico City friends, one in a place like paradise.

Before going north to the comforts of my family in Texas last month, I packed a bag full of overnight things to join the book club group in a mid-week escape to Valle de Bravo. A dear, delight of a member, generous to the nth degree, invited us into a world like a recipe for perfect. Women, walks, buoyed by conversation--one about a book--we lightened our figurative baggage's load, leaving everyday life in suspension.

Some travels take people home, some take us to visit family. Trips might be to someplace "real," or to a fantasy created to paint the world in colors of ease. Valle de Bravo might lean toward the latter, yet it still feels like a spot that's in between; a balance of light and heavy, like a suitcase of good books and some Colorado tea.

(Take a look at the photo album--if not up now, up soon in the right-hand column)

Removed

I've been mostly in Texas for the past two weeks. This enormous state was, indeed, once a part of Mexico. In fact, that dashing fellow, Zaragoza, the hero of the Cinco de Mayo battle, was born in this very same wild and wooly territory. But the state is now north of the border, and I've discovered that it is hard to write about things south of the Rio Bravo (the Rio Grande, in Texas terms) when I'm traipsing around some degrees north of it. Have faith, though. I'll be south again next week.