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.   

And never, never to forget

Between January 16 and 22, I returned to Guatemala, land of chicken buses, Quetzales, Crush soda and Gallo beer. More important than these trivial details, though, I consider my current next-door neighbor the birthplace of my love for Latin America. When I was ten, my parents and I took our annual summer vacation to Quetzaltenango (Xela), Guatemala.  For two weeks, we lived with a host family and studied Spanish. While my Spanish skills may not have developed significantly during these two weeks (I failed to grasp the significance of the verb conjugation cards my teachers made me, though I fell in love with the black tea served at breaks and the many games I played during hours of classes), something about the culture and people of Guatemala and Latin America spoke to me and has been growing inside me for the last 13 years. For me, living in Mexico is living the dream, as was having the opportunity to return to Guatemala, to a place that in one way or another was the catalyst for this part of my life journey.

What took me to Guatemala for a week, you ask? The MCC Mesoamerica retreat in Santiago Atitlàn.  For several days, around 60 MCCers serving in Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua and Honduras gathered for a time of fellowship, spiritual renewal and discussions on the theme "development work in violent contexts." Though at times overwhelming to be with so many new people, I was inspired by those of all ages serving with MCC in Mesoamerica. I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to visit the home and workplace of my fellow SALTer Aaron and the chance to be reminded that my work here and that of the other seven MCCers in Mexico is part of something bigger.  It was also wonderful to soak up the sun on the beautiful Lake Atitlan by boat, foot and kayak, all the while in the shadow of three impressive volcanoes.

The theme for our week, development work in violent contexts, spoke to me in a very unique way. As I listened to the stories of my fellow MCCers and the presentations of our guest speaker, Erlinda de Robledo from San Pedro Sula, Honduras, I realized what a unique situation I am in. In comparison to where many other MCCers are serving, I am in an incredibly safe city. I've begun to take for granted the fact that I can walk alone until 9:30 at night, a good three hours after sunset, the fact that I can take a taxi by myself at any time of the day or night, and the fact that I rarely feel scared or threatened here.This, in contrast with those who rarely go out after sundown or who need to keep some money in an easily accessible pocket at all times in case of an assault or robbery.

My reflections on this theme went beyond personal safety and I found myself contemplating the violent contexts of the countries in which those of us in Latin America live. In my October 20 post, I struggled with the extreme violence and injustice I was learning about here in Mexico. For my first several months, the pace of my heart increased every time I passed a soldier or private security guard with an immense and imposing gun. And I saw this a lot, owing to the fact that Chiapas is one of the most militarized state in Mexico. I cried over the massacres, drug-related killings and the abundance of innocent incarcerations. My stomach turned over every time I saw a gruesome photo of a dead body painted across the cover of a "newspaper" that, to me, seemed more like a tabloid. But over time, I realized at this retreat, I`ve found ways of steeling myself to these tragedies. I`ve found ways of garding my heart to more easily live into the rush of work, family time and a full social life. With this realization, aided by the reflection time provided throughout the retreat, came a wave of horrifying realizations: the realization that some of these situations no longer hit me as hard as they did during my first months; the realization that yesterday I stopped at a gas station with a friend and didn`t blink an eye at the huge guns the military men toted; the realization that I am, in fact, becoming immune and hardened. This hit me like a sharp blow to the gut and it further affirmed my belief that exposure to violence and injustice has the potential to numb the pain. And I don`t want to succumb. Even though pain hurts, I don`t want it to stop hurting. Because when it stops hurting, you can start to forget. Or you can become indifferent. And then you can stop caring and stop acting against violence and for peace. And I don`t want to stop acting.

So this retreat reminded me to fight the urge to get too comfortable. And it reminded me not to forget. That`s one of the reasons I studied history at Goshen College...because I think we can use the past to shape the future. But it doesn`t work if we forget.

In contemplating this blog post, I remember a powerful text that a dear friend, Julia, shared with me in the latter part of last year. It now adorns my bedroom wall along with other quotes, pictures and cards that many of you have sent with me this year. And now I share it with you:

To love. To be loved. To never forget your own significance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To persue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To repeat strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try to understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget. -Arundati Roy-

So here`s to never forgetting.      

Beaches, Birthdays and Bingo: bringing 2011 to a close

November and December brought me increasing comfort in my daily life in Chiapas. It brought multiple chances to explore my surroundings outside of San Cristóbal.  It brought many days filled with Skip-bo, nights full of salsa dancing, deeper connections, new friends and the passage of many holidays both familiar and unfamiliar. These months brought my first visitor, my 23rd birthday and most importantly, an increasing sense of peace in who and where I am in this world. But enough of my words, dear reader. I´ll let the images do the rest of the talking. 

Magaly--Gabriel´s sister

A weekend at the beach: Boca del Cielo
Photos courtesy of Lucie

Lathering on the sunscreen. Be proud, Dad, very proud.

I think I´m third from the left

Because what´s a weekend at the beach without seafood? 
The shark empanadas were probably my favorite.

Though you can´t tell, this sunset gave way to one of the
starriest nights I´ve every experienced. It was magical.

This is the little girl I wrote about in my Thanksgiving post:
the one who wished we would all become stars one day.

Día de la Revolución parade
20 November

My 23rd birthday was one of, if not the best I´ve ever experienced.
After taking the traditional face-bite of my tres leches cake at INESIN,
I returned home to a lunch with my family and the Blocks. These are the
delicious lemon pound cakes Jaquie baked and the card written by Ezra.
The two candles along with another in the shape of a red apple that adorned
my room when I arrived became my advent wreath during the month of December.

Excessively excited to turn 23!!!!!

Eduardo attempting (though only partially successfully)
to avoid being captured in this momentous photo.

And the evening ended with a party with friends.
Meet Nicolas and Luis! Photos again courtesty of Lucie.

 

 

 

And the happiest part of my wonderful day:
EEYORE PIÑATA!

Marie and Lucie--party-organizers extraordinaire

Saturday at Rancho Nuevo

Even a day-outing couldn´t keep Liliana and me
from our Skip-bo addiction.

Carne asada

Chiapas: my beautiful home

Chiflón: one of the many waterfalls in this water-filled state

A day at Lagos de Colón with INESIN

Young-adult Christmas celebration at the Presbyterian church
I´ve been attending. During this evening I had the honor of
being a judge for the American Idolesque caroling competition.
Too bad I´ve never actually watched the show :)

In true Mexican form, I´m getting my fill of piñatas this year.

Amanda

Abi at the grill during INESIN´s Christmas party
And yes, I ate the meat :)

 

 

This is Miriam, MCC Chiapas´ newest team member. She came
in late November and is renting an apartment on my street. The
week before Christmas we got together for a morning of cookie-baking.

Liliana and Eduardo stopped by to help

Peppernuts, sugar cut-outs and a few lime shortbread cookies. 
The rest are featured in the center of the table as lime butter
brittle! oops :)

Elena, teaching me to embroider

And then came Christmas and Joe, my first visitor.  On Christmas Eve
we ate cookies, drank hot chocolate, read the Christmas story and my
favorite copy of The Night Before Christmas, mailed by my wonderful mother.

Christmas fireworks. I won´t even venture a guess
at how many of these things exploded from the middle
of December until 6 January (Día de los Reyes Magos).

On the way to Palenque.

New Year´s Eve. We filled the evening with fireworks, LOTS of
meat (I even sampled raw beef) and bingo.

I thought the midnight toast would bring the evening´s festivities
to a close, but apparently changing the calendar only helped spice
the party up.  Instead of scurrying off to bed, we spent the next two
hours dancing around the living room.

Joe and I did a lot over his almost two weeks here, though you
won´t see it reflected in these photos.  Somehow his camera (which
we had used for visually recording our adventure) got lost. To
compensate, on the last two days I took an excessive number of
photos of our trip to the Lagos de Montebello.

And I name this one "out of a Land´s End catalogue"

Straddling the Mexico/Guatemala border at Lago Internacional

I received endless grief from two Swiss men we met for my inadequate
footwear.  BUTIT´SNOTTHERAINYSEASON!!! How was I to know?

Elote with chile and lime. About as Mexican as you can get.

Our guide at a sinkhole reachable only by horseback.

I call this one "Almost out of a North Face catalogue"

 

 

 

 

 

Happy New Year, dear readers!  Thanks for joining me on the journey.

Because no celebration of the Virgin Mary is complete without torches, a liter of beer and bumper cars

I think my fascination with Mary began in high school when I was a member of my church´s worship committee. One Advent, we decided that our theme song would be the Beatle´s “Let it Be.” My interest in Mary, as a celebrated Biblical female continued to grow and last year in my introduction to Christian theology class, I chose to write my elective research paper on Mary as woman, mother and intercessor in theological discourse and popular devotion. To my good fortune, at the Indigenous Mayan Theology retreat I attended about a month ago, I met a Catholic priest named Sebastián. He specializes in Mariology and recently sent me a digital copy of his book entitled María en el evangelio liberador.  I have always appreciated the Catholic emphasis on Mary and my time in Mexico is allowing me to continue exploring Mary.  
 

Last Monday, I experienced the fervor with which many Catholics here celebrate the Virgin Mother. In Mexico (and some other Latin American countries) December 12^th is Día de la Virgen de Guadalupe. According to Catholic tradition, Mary appeared in Mexico to a priest in 1531 and then left a hill covered with roses and her image imprinted on the priest´s robe. Since that year, Mexico has celebrated this appearance in a variety of ways.

On the one hand, December 12 is used as an excuse to party. For the few days leading up to the 12^th, the road leading up to the cathedral in SCLC that bears the name Guadalupe was jam-packed with food, rides, musicians and people. You could feast on chorros (fried sugary dough), ponche (a traditional hot Christmas punch), a one-liter michelada (beer mixed with lime and chile) and many other Mexican specialties. Music pumped through the streets and I elected to take a spin in the bumper cars (they took me back to my childhood and seemed much safer than the Ferris wheel which was supported by a pile of wood). At midnight on the 12^th the crowds were also treated to a fantastic fireworks display.

Perhaps more unique than these festivities was the religious devotion I also observed. Many religious devotees spent the two weeks leading up to the Día de la Virgen de Guadalupe making a pilgrimage called the antorcha. Groups of people would run a lit torch for hundreds of kilometers, switching off every km and spending the rest of the time resting in the bed of a pick-up truck. On the 12^th, I was lucky enough to lunch with Liliana´s grandmother whose home is located on the Real de Guadalupe.  After eating, we pulled chairs outside to watch group after group running the last few hundred meters to their final destination. They ran by, exhausted and grimy, but chanting in loud voices as the confetti of passers-by rained down upon them: “¡H-i-h-o está torcha ya llegó!”

In addition to being a fascinating time to observe and participate in Mexican culture, thinking about Mary has helped me get into the advent season. In the absence of my normal holiday traditions it is surreal to me that Christmas is just four days away (three in Mexico as Christmas is celebrated the evening of the 24^th ). I send my love and wishes for a very Merry Christmas to you all. And this Christmas Eve, in addition to reading The Night Before Christmas and the story of Jesus´ birth as I´ve done with my parents for the last 22 years, I´ll add the Hail Mary that I heard my devout host mom in Cuernavaca recite every night before bed:  

Dios te salve María, llena eres de gracia,

el Señor es contigo;

bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres,

y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús.

A Festival of Carols: Mexico edition

In the spirit of full self-disclosure, before you proceed, dear reader, know that if I´m a snob about anything, it´s choral music. Now. Read to your heart´s content.

I wasn't worried about too many things before I came to Mexico. My summer was so busy, I honestly didn't have time to imagine what awful calamities might befall me...or more likely, what I would miss terribly, or what aspect of culture shock would spin me on my head. I did worry about the fact that I wouldn't be singing on a regular basis. Each of the last 14 years of my life found me involved in a choir...beginning with six years making music with the Shenandoah Valley Children's Choir, followed by high school choir and ending with participation in four choirs at Goshen College.

Soon after arriving in San Cristóbal, Martín informed me that INESIN would be forming an inter-confessional choir in November. I was so excited! What a great way to meet new people and continue my tradition of choral singing. We were even going to receive a volunteer from Switzerland with musical training to help us for six weeks!

Well, upon attending the first rehearsal, I lowered my expectations a bit. The most animated members of our group were close to tone deaf. The director didn't have a Master's Degree or PhD in choral music like all of my previous directors. In rehearsals, I found myself trying to offer small tips that would increase the "quality" of our musical interpretation..."why don't we try not to breath between the words volverán and a? What if the sopranos sing the first verse of ¿Qué niño es éste? by themselves to add a little variety to the song?"

The final goal of this choir was to perform three songs [¿Qué niño es éste? (What Child is This?), Himno a la alegría (Ode to Joy) and Villancico de las campanas (Carol of the Bells)] at a Christian choir festival on Friday night. As Friday approached, I became more and more unenthused about the pending performance. The three and a half hour rehearsal which only found us singing for ten minutes didn't help my mood...although the taquitos offered as a midday snack were quite delicious.

At five pm on Friday I semi-resentfully hauled myself to the combi that would drop me off at the Teatro de la Ciudad. After we sang, I returned to my seat a little bit embarrassed. We weren´t always in of tune and left something to be desired in the way of artistic expression. But as I sat down to watch the following groups perform, my attitude started to change. The last group to perform came from a catholic parish. They were dressed to the nines with each man in a suit, each woman in a matching turquoise shirt and multicolored scarf and children clad entirely in white, carrying candles mounted on sticks and encased in translucent blue paper. It was magical. The lights lowered and a girl who appeared to be about five sang out in a hauntingly beautiful solo that garnered applause almost immediately. Their performance continued with a multitude of instruments and choreographed dance numbers. I was completely memorized. After the final song died down, I wanted to revel in the silence, but had to quickly run onto stage for our final combined number: Noche de paz (Silent Night). After singing the final verse with the audience, just like I had done in so many Christmas concerts before, a feeling of peace and joy replaced my previous grumpiness.

Music has given me life and this experience helped me understand that perfection isn´t always the point. While I feel lucky to have participated in many high-caliber choirs, in these situations sometimes the pursuit of perfection supercedes the joy. And sometimes sharing your emotion and passion with the world is more important. And sometimes you have to let the music give you joy, as does the salsa music that accompanies my dancing many Friday evenings. And sometimes singing is a way to support an organization, like INESIN. Or sometimes it's a way to support a person. On Sunday, I was Skyping with my parents and my home congregation came caroling to our Smith St residence. Mom toted the computer to our front door, so I could see the beautiful faces of Shalom Mennonite Congregation as they seranaded my family. Music is powerful. And it is powerful in many forms.

So even though my festival of carols was different this year, it was meaningful and an important reality check. Am I now a reformed choral snob? Probably not. But I´m reminded to consider the bigger picture. This festival of carols was a moment to soak up the culture, support my organization and integrate myself more into this community. And for that I´m greateful.