The Giant Cosmic Lottery

There are moments when life seems so surreal that you think you must be observing someone else´s from a great distance...that it can´t be your own. I seem to be experiencing many such moments this year. The latter part of last weekend presented me with many chances to step back, take a deep breath and live deeply into these fleeting and oftentimes surreal moments.  

My most recent adventures began after an intense three days assisting with a workshop on Pastoral Accompaniment in Situations of Domestic Violence. After wrapping up the workshop and finally uploading INESIN´s new website (you can check it out here...don´t judge too much. This was my first foray into the world of website design and construction), I decided to take a personal day and traveled with two co-workers, Elena and Dario, to the municipality of Huixtán. Thursday morning found us walking into the parish where Elena worked prior to her time at INESIN. For me, Catholicism has always been shrouded in mystery: maybe it´s the insense that wafts through the cathedral during mass, maybe it´s the Latin, or maybe its because as a non-catholic partaking in the eucharist and making the sign of the cross are not done. Whatever it is, as I walked into the rectory living room (a place I had never imgained I would enter) and ate chips with the joke-cracking priests, I felt like I was peeking into a secret world. My amazement only continued as I jumped into the bed of a pick-up with them and trundled through the forest in search of a laguna which we found after at least an hour of searching.

Later that day, I sat by a river and lunched on roast chicken, rice, beans and handmade tortillas with Elena, Dario and four indigenous sisters (only one of whom spoke Spanish). We settled down to eat only after picking our way, barefoot, through a pitch black cave. In the evening we visited three of Elena´s friends, each in turn offering us coffee and sweet bread. As a rule, I never drink coffee after 6 pm and never willfully add sugar. I broke both self-imposed rules three times that evening in the spirit of accepting hospitality and because, let´s be honest, I´ve been getting far too attached to the daily combination of sweet bread dipped in coffee. I´m sure I will continue to compulsively coffee-dip any cookie, cracker or piece of bread within reach upon completion of my time here.

After crashing in the parish´s dormitory, Elena awoke Dario and me before 6 am to make the trek to her home. After descending from the highway a good 15 minutes on a steep, dirt trail, we reached Elena´s home. It was everything I imagined a Mexican campesino home would be: chickens heating themselves under a roaring fire in the kitchen, beans and fresh corn bubbling away in pots and a kitten weaving its way through my ankles. I even got to grind corn and flip tortillas on the hot comal. We spent the morning hiking through the Chiapanecan highland with Elena´s parents, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews. We collected foliage for their rabbits, visited the recently planted corn and beans, hauled wood, shot shotguns, caught crabs and grasshoppers and then rested (quite sweatily) and finished off two three-liter bottles of Coke. After lunch, I spent the afternoon playing duck, duck, goose (I couldn´t remember how to say goose in Spanish, so the game became "duck, duck, deer") with the nieces and nephews. We didn´t always understand each other as I was communicating in Spanish and they, primarily in Tsotsil, but somehow between the sun, dirt, laughter and running, we became friends.

My adventure of a weekend continued on Saturday with a trip to Tuxtla Guitérrez (the capital of Chiapas) to watch my first professional soccer match. The Jaguares (Chiapas´ team and the one I root for along with Gabriel, much to Liliana and Eduard´s dismay due to the fact that they are avid Puma fans) won(!) and I left the stadium to the drumbeats of diehard fans. Saturday evening ended with the baptism party of a family friend. As I munched on tamales and sipped hot chocolate on a chilly patio, the reality of my last three days hit me like a brick. As I listed everything I had done, I realized that very few Mexicans would ever experience this unique combination of activities in such a short timeframe. Many living in communities don´t have the means to attend a professional soccer match (even with the rock-bottom $40 peso pricetag) and many Mexicans with the means to attend this sporting event wouldn´t choose to visit an indigenous community. Everything I experienced in these three days was a Mexican reality, but experiencing them all at once is certainly not common.

Since this weekend, I´ve been reflecting on the giant comic lottery that is life. What luck of the draw landed me in southern Mexico this weekend, seeing the sun-kissed mountains and the cast-aside Coke bottles, smelling the bay leaves and the horse poop, hearing the trickling stream and the roar of fanatic fútbol fans, braiding the thick black hair of Elena´s niece and licking the mole off my fingers? What luck of the draw gave me a birth family with significant economic resources and a home in one of the most "developed" nations of the world? Some would say it´s all part of God´s plan, but I´m more of a fan of the "giant cosmic lottery metaphor."  Yes, I believe that God is all around me, around each one of us. I believe God accompanies us in every step of our journey, but I think our circumstances stem from a variety of factors including a good dose of chance and context.

On Friday, as I hiked with Elena´s sister-in-law, Areceli (me in my tennis shoes and t-shirt, her in her heavy skirt and embrodered blouse), we got to chatting and she asked me how old I was. I responded that I had just turned 23 on December 2. She responded that her birthday, too, is December 2nd. Normally I refrain from asking Mexican women their age (it´s just not done here), but since she asked first and I got really excited about our shared birthday, I took the plunge. I don´t know what I was expecting (I´m a terrible judge of age), but 24 was certainly not it. This woman has a husband, three children, ages 7, 8, and 10 and all the responsibilites that go along with family life. When she revealed her age, I worked hard to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor. This woman and I share a birthday, but in so many ways our lives are radically different. The fact that she had her first child at 14 and I, at 23, have no plans of become a mother for at least five years blew my mind. Yes, I theoretically know that females can give birth at age 14. I know that in many cultures childbearing is expected much earlier than in the culture I come from. But this woman wasn´t a statistic; I played with her children, ate at her table and realized through the process that if one of us had been born in a different context, we could be good friends. But the giant cosmic lottery dealt us different hands. And we will both go our different ways, But I hope to see her again because I liked her and she told me that she loves to have visitors.

We´ll see if the giant cosmic lottery brings us together again. And maybe I´ll stack the cards a bit and make sure that it does.

Knitting with chopsticks

I had many knitters in my life before I came to Mexico: my mom whose first knitting project from years ago was a washcloth that ended up stuffed in her bathroom closet; my aunt Terri who has nurtured my knitting soul, Elizabeth, who knows how to knit a uterus and Sher who sent me and Liliana and me enough yarn to keep us occupied until the end of my stay here.

And in the last months, many new knitters have been added to my life: Liliana who knits faster than anyone I´ve ever met; Elena, who´s teaching me the embroidery techniques from her community, San Gregorio Huixtán as I teach her to knit; Erendida who just went through her first chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer and still brings her knitting with her when she participates in workshops at INESIN; Doña Lucy, who is currently working on a sweater for her new baby grandson while the potatoes boil or the chicken roasts in INESIN´s kitchen. And then there´s Eduardo who doesn´t knit, but watches my progress intently and makes me laugh every time he calls my knitting needles "chopsticks."

I´ve realized recently, that knitting is not just something to keep my hands occupied when watching a movie or chatting. It´s also a powerful way for me to connect. I´ve been introduced to a bakery owner (also an avid knitter) who wants me to give her the pattern for a hat I made. I´ve spent rainy mornings sitting in the kitchen with Doña Lucy, exchanging knitting techniques. A few nights ago I introduced Liliana to the wonders of Ravelry, a social media website for knitters. Last week, Elena and huddled in the office after work to embroider, knit and talk.

Knitting has given me an instant connection with many people here. It has then proceeds to facilitate an even deeper connection, provides the space to discover commonalities and differences in a nonthreatening and organic way.

The women I´ve met here don´t use double-pointed needles and stitch Continental exclusively. I´ve yet to see them use a written pattern, something I fear to stray from. Their lives are quite different than mine in more significant ways, too. After all, I´m the youngest of the knitters I know here and we were raised in different cultures and speaking different languages. I´ve found that to fully appreciate differences, it helps to first find something that unites, because when you can see a piece of yourself in another, suddenly it becomes easier to rejoice in their triumps and refrain from instantly judging their flaws.

So when I experience moments here of feeling different, misunderstood or lonely, I´m going to remember to search for what unites us. And when I´m not, I´ll continue this search and also try to understand our differences and why they matter.

Either way, I´ll keep knitting because I really want to finish this pair of socks before my parents come in two weeks and it´s looking like I made a big mistake when I recently ripped out a big chunk. After all, it´s really hard to pick up the stiches with chopsticks.

Immigration from another side of the border wall

In 2009, the U.S. census bureau reported that the U.S. has the 2nd largest Hispanic population in the world. (Can you guess who we followed? Yep. That would be Mexico.) Based on this information, I'll venture a wild guess that almost everyone who has lived in the U.S. for the past 23 years has interacted with Latin Americans in one context or another. I, of course, am no exception. Every day, Spanish could be heard ringing out though Harrisonburg High School's hallways. I served as a Spanish translator at Harrisonburg's Patchwork Pantry and Goshen's Center for Healing and Hope. Before coming to Mexico, I followed stories about detained immigrants and even had the chance to write a blog post about Pedro Guzman's celebrated release after 20 months in a Georgia detention center during my time as an intern at Witness for Peace this summer (you'll have to scroll down to the May 19 post to read my writing).

The "immigration issue" is everywhere and certaintly provokes strong emotions. There are many who would love nothing more to see all Latin American immigrants deported (I think of Goshen city council member Dixie Robinson, who I interviewed for a project in my Violence and Non-violence class during my last year at Goshen College). There are others who actively fight to help immigrants achieve the rights they deserve, and there are many who fall somewhere in between.  Needless to say, the issue is polarizing and complex. During my last few months here, I've seen (thank you Facebook) several interesting social commentaries that remind us of these complexities. A friend here in San Cristòbal shared an episode of South Park (a show I had never watched before) with me. "The Last of the Meheecans" provides a provocative (and crude) commentary about how the many of those with an "anti-immigrant" stance would respond if all Latin American immigrants returned to their country of origin. The above meme has been making its way around cyberland and speaks to the vital role many Latin Americans play in the cycle of U.S. food production and consumption.

And now, as I experience this issue from the other side of the border wall, complexity adds to complexity. From my current vantage point, I`m reminded that Mexico isn't only a country to be escaped, it's also a destination. This country receives many immigrants from other Latin American countires. The majority of Central American immigrants cross the border in Chiapas. The southern border of Mexico (a mere 2.5 hours drive from San Cristòbal) is overflowing with migration checkpoints and it is not uncommon to be riding on a combi near the southern border, only to have migration officials trudge on, ask for identification and yank off Central Americans who don't present proper identification. 

My experiences here have also reminded me that migration doesn't only change the composition of the U.S. Many Mexican's I've met here have family working in "the North." Those without documentation required by the U.S. face an incredibly dangerous journey if they want to return home. Many don`t. Last week my friend Tone told me about his uncle`s absence over Christmas because he`s currently living in L.A. Many Mexican immigrants don't want to leave their home and family, but many see no other opportunity to provide for their family. There are organizations working to address this reality. For example, one objective of INESIN's Strengthening Communities project, is to provide Mexican families with an alternative to migration through family gardens which provide both food for self consumption as well as a possible source of supplemental income. Though making a living through small-scale agriculture in Mexico became significantly more difficult after the introduction of NAFTA in 1994 (due to imported, subsidized grain from the U.S., among other factors), vegetable gardens provide one way for families to meet their basic need for food.

Of all the migration stories I've heard while here, Ivan's sticks with me the most. Christmas Eve found me on a bus to the airport in Tuxtla Gutierrez, capital of Chiapas. I was the only passenger as the bus wound its way down from the Chiapas highlands to tierra caliente. I spent the one hour+ bus ride, chatting with the driver, Ivan.  Like me, he was away from home that Christmas Eve. As we talked, he told me of the eight years he spent in Georgia working his way up the chain of command at IHOP.  Those years included two harrowing border crossings, one walking through the desert with the help of a coyote at age 16, the other four years later after a visit home, this time swimming. Ivan remembered his time in the U.S. with fondness. He considered his wage exceptional in comparison to what he would have been making in Mexico with only a high-school education. He made great friends. He even named his first daughter after an IHOP coworker. After the birth of his daughter, a few years back, he made the decision to stay in Mexico.  "She's my world," he told me. Now Ivan works as a bus driver for Mexico's OCC enterprise. He said it was the best work someone without a college degree could hope for and feels grateful for the work, even though his family lives over three hours away and the work doesn't permit him to get home as often as he would like. Ivan dreams of being an English teacher one day and I know he could do it even though I have no doubt that many of his students would end up with his Georgia twang. I hope he has the chance to realize his dream.

Hearing stories like this is one of the most powerful parts of my experience in Mexico. As is learning about immigration from this side of the border wall.