Easter Monday

"We are an Easter people."

What does that mean?

This past week has been one of intense reflection for me. Last year - I'm talking about the liturgical calendar here - around this time, I was in crisis. I had decided to spend my semana santa traveling around Guerrero and planned my trip so I'd end in Taxco, a magical little city known for silver and elaborate religious processions.

I witnessed things like this:

As I watched, I was very aware that I was an observer, not a participant. It was fascinating, yet alien. I couldn’t understand self-flagellation as having anything to do with my spirituality. My Lent, my Good Friday, my Easter didn’t leave me bloodied or raw.

But, last year, the Divine mystery had other plans for me. As I listened to the “Roman army” make its official accusation of a wooden Christ, with someone else’s blood splattered on my feet, I noticed my wallet was gone. And so, all of a sudden, I was in a not-so-safe part of Mexico, alone, without any money or identification.

I didn't know what to do, but I still had my phone with one U.S. number in it, so I called Kevin. He was getting ready to leave for the airport to come visit me - great timing, right? - and was trying to finish some stuff up at work. I asked him to buy me a bus ticket online or over the phone so I could get back to Toluca but he couldn't figure it out. His departure loomed and hysteria took over. We were anxious, afraid, helpless, and broken down after months of being in different countries. And I was afraid for my physical safety in a way that I hadn't experienced before. Things fell apart.

Long story short, I made it to Mexico City - thanks to the generosity of the hotelkeeper and my roommates - but Kevin didn't, at least not that night. The amount of misunderstanding, fear, selfishness, and anger - from both of us - that created that situation is still baffling and the memory of sobbing and screaming into the phone while lying on the airport floor still hurts immensely. I spent that Friday night alone and hungry in an airport hotel, feeling overwhelmed by the darkness.

Our relationship - and my spirit, to be honest - was broken for a long time after that. But I tried my best to ignore my instincts and tough it out, believing that love was there and would return.

And it did.

I told this story to one of my students last week and her first response was something along the lines of "how blessed that this all happened on Good Friday, that you were able to experience such deep communion with the suffering Christ."

I was floored. It was so true, so beautiful, and I could hardly imagine a white American - a person like me - ever saying it.

You see, my student is from Guatemala and she knew exactly what kind of processions I went to see in Taxco. In Guatemala, like Mexico and most of Latin America, people tend to focus on the events of "Holy Week" - the Last Supper, the betrayals, the Crucifixion - and not really on Easter itself. I might be oversimplifying, but I think that a lot of it is cultural. It can't be just a coincidence that white Americans (and Europeans) - the colonizers, the conquerors, the entrepreneurs, and the well-provided for - tend to identify with a moment of triumph while Latin America (and Africa and Asia and all their various diasporas) find meaning in the Shadow of the Cross.

We are an Easter people, but we are also a Crucified people. The Resurrection is always ahead, and that can give us hope, but sometimes, hope is not enough. We need to know that there is meaning in the present moment, in the pain, in the doubt, in the cruelty and isolation. We need to know that Communion with the Divine is not something that will happen in the future, when everything has been resolved, but something that is most tangible when we have been stripped bare.

I find it very easy to forget that amidst all the talk - on TV, in newspapers, in casual chats, in sermons - about success and prosperity and achievement and how we're #blessed. But luckily, there are always reminders - in Lenten revelations, in conversations with immigrant students, or even marching around the streets of Boston:

A year later, a different city, but the Crucified God still found me.

Despedida, parte dos

This post will be short because there's just too much to say and I can't say it all.

It's four in the morning and I'll be heading to the airport in a few minutes. If all goes well with migración, I'll be on my way to the United States in a few hours.

I can't quite believe that it's time to go. There were certainly long days but ultimately, it felt short which means, of course, that it didn't really feel long enough. I didn't teach my students enough, I didn't improve my Spanish enough, I didn't visit enough places, I didn't make enough friends, I didn't eat enough tacos. A lot is left unfinished.

But, evidently, it's time to go.

There are some things that I won't miss - 7 AM classes, men yelling at me in the street, systems I don't understand, bureaucracy that just won't quit, washing my clothes by hand, eating more meat than vegetables, bottled water, never blending in, homesickness, the list goes on.

But there's so much that I will miss - my students in all their laziness and intelligence and kindness and humor, the food, the friendliness of strangers, the bright colors, buying tortillas by the kilo from the "chicken place" on my block, fresh fruit, traveling, beaches, butterflies, mountains, calaveras, mezcal, pulque, newness, Spanish, learning to cook new dishes, always being so "unique", free time, relaxed schedules, new friends, a perpetual sense of awe.

I'll come back - I know that - but it won't be the same. It never is, is it? Now I'm going "home" but that won't be the same either. And so I'm caught in between, crying because I'll be happy to see friends and family and drink tap water but also because I'm sad to say goodbye to my life here and I'm a little afraid of what's to come.

But the taxi has been called and it's time to say a prayer and venture forth. I'm carrying you with me, México, and I'll try to treat you well.

Ya vamos. 

Despedida, parte 1

Tomorrow is my last day at the school, and I leave Mexico the day after that.

The despedidas, the goodbyes, the "lasts" have begun.

Last week, I had my official despedida at school. I thought it was going to be full of ridiculous ceremony - and it was - but it was also really sweet and a wonderful way to start off my last week here. A couple of students spoke, a couple of students danced, and all of second year gave me spoken-word-style snaps, which was so happy-making. 

The day after my despedida, I got the chance to do something I'd be hoping to do since I first got to Mexico - learn to make mole. Jayime's mom generously offered to share her culinary wisdom with me and invited me to her house Thursday afternoon. We made mole verde in her mother's cazuela, using her grandmother's recipe and I now have almost-incoherent instructions on how to make both mole verde and mole rojo scrawled in Spanglish on the back of an old lesson plan.

I doubt that any mole I make will ever be as delicious as what was in that steaming cazuela, but it's pretty cool that I kinda-sorta know how to make it now, right? I'm pretty sure this is the best souvenir I'm bringing back from Mexico - a generations-old recipe, packed full of love and ready to be shared with friends and family. Hope you're ready to taste my attempts to recreate it!

(Stay tuned for more despedida-type reflections...)

Visitors!

It's (unsurprisingly) been awhile since I last wrote, which is annoying, I'm sorry, but in the meantime, I've had a handful of wonderful visitors and I'm finally going to tell you all about them!

In February, my dad and my stepmom Bonnie took a week-long break in their busy schedules to come see me! They spent their first weekend in DF and then made their way over to Toluca for a few days. Things here were a little hectic since Obama was coming to town, but we still managed to see the Nevado, check out Metepec, and enjoy some chorizo. For their last weekend here, we headed to Puebla (I visited it for the first time back in September) and enjoyed the delicious food, colonial architecture, and the nearby ruins. I also convince Bonnie to try pulque, which earned her some major street cred.

While they were visiting, I found out that my dear friend India made a last-minute decision to go to Cancun with her family and figured out a way to squeeze in a visit with me before she continued south. She got here about two weeks later and it was a fantastic treat to spend a few days with her. We stayed in DF for the weekend, mostly hanging out in Coyoacán. We went to the Frida Kahlo museum (my second time there), saw Diego Rivera's private collection, enjoyed the weirdness of Xochimilco, were overwhelmed by the Zocalo, and ate a lot of good food.

Then, India came back to Toluca with me. I think she was pretty underwhelmed by the city itself, but we had fun relaxing in Metepec and a grand ol' time in lovely Malinalco. It was a little tricky to get to but I'm a pretty big fan of that town now. 

AND THEN, the day after India left, I flew down to meet Kevin in Cancun. We wanted to avoid the spring break crowd, so we made our way over to Tulum and spent a few days there swimming, eating fish tacos, and generally being lazy. We also got to see our friends Johnny and Brian (calling Brian a friend is a bit of a stretch, since I met him for the first time in Tulum, but I had heard so much about him that I'm doing it anyway) but I was lame and forgot to take a photo to commemorate the experience. Just imagine that the four of us are there when you're looking at the pictures of the ruins (I promise we were.)

It was a little hard to adjust my normal life in Toluca after all that fun, but somehow, I'm managing. And FYI, this post was written as much to remind myself of how fortunate I am as it was to share my experience with you all because, ya know, in five years, if I'm having a terrible day, I can look at this at be like "WOW, life is amazing." Don't you think? 

(More photos here.)