Showing posts with label new york. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new york. Show all posts

May 10, 2013

Mamá de dos lugares

Ayer tuve dos momentos de confusión y no fue debido al vértigo que he tenido por las ultimas tres semanas.
El primer momento fue por la mañana cuando unas amigas me invitaron a reunir con ellas y los pequeños este domingo que viene. Dijeron algo como "porque el viernes es día de las madres." Pensé, queeeé? El domingo es día de las madres. Y así es, en los Estados Unidos, el segundo domingo de mayo. Pero yo vivo en México, y rápidamente recordé que el día de las madres es el 10 de mayo, lo cual es hoy este año.
Luego, estuve trabajando mucho mas tarde que debía, cuando dos compañeras mexicanas me mandaron un mensaje por Facebook diciendo "Felicidades en tu día mañana!" Y de nuevo me quedé así como, "mi día? de qué hablan? a poco creen que es mi cumpleaños?" Pero esta vez la sensación de confusión desvaneció mas rápido cuando me di cuenta que estaban hablando de día de las madres. 
Si preguntas porque me cuesta tanto recordar que 10 de mayo es día de las madres aquí, puedo decir que por un lado, aunque he estado en México por casi siete años, solo he pasado dos días de las madres como madre aquí, antes de ayer, porque mi hija aún es chiquita. Así que aún no es un día festivo a que me acostumbro ser celebrada personalmente. Y por el otro lado, mi esposo es una persona muy buena, pero por la manera que sus papás le criaron, no tiende a celebrar mucho los días festivos.
Pero les dije gracias a mis amigas de todas formas, y me quedé impactada que unas mujeres jóvenes, sin hijos propios, tomarían la iniciativa para felicitarme aunque no somos familiares. Incluso observé que las mujeres felicitaron las madres de cada una, en un intercambio mutuo de aprecio para las madres que dieron vida a sus amigas. 
Lo último fue algo que jamás he observado en mi país de nacimiento. En Estados Unidos, en mi experiencia, todos sabemos cuando es Día de las Madres, pero celebramos a nuestras propias madres, tal vez abuelas o una tía. Al recibir los afectuosos saludos de parte de mis amigas por ser madre, me quedé pensando en las diferencias de las dos culturas. Llegué a la conclusión que, como había pensado en tiempos anteriores cuando mi hija era recién nacida, que de ciertas formas, ser padres en un país como México tiene ciertas ventajas.
Claro que aún existe el machismo y la desigualdad. Sin embargo,las mujeres han luchado en todos ámbitos a través de las generaciones y yo he observado a más y más padres ayudando con la crianza de sus peques como nunca antes, y eso ha sido una experiencia satisfactoria. 
Incluso hay un fenómeno que nunca deja de impresionarme cuando lo veo: niños adolescentes caminando por las calles agarrando la mano de su madre, o con su brazo en el de ella, cercanamente a su lado. Yo recuerdo en Estados Unidos, siendo adolescente, lo mas lejos de tus padres que puedes estar, mejor. Al ver los niños teniendo tanto aprecio, tanta ternura para sus madres, me siento un alivio sin explicación, y creo que tiene que ver con la esperanza que, posiblemente, mi hija podría no rechazarme tanto como los adolescentes Estadounidenses tienden a rechazar sus padres cuando lleguen a ese edad. 
No tengo las respuestas para explicar las diferencias, y estoy segura que hay otros factores que afectan el balance entre ventajas y desventajas de ser madre en cada una de las culturas. Pero estoy agradecida que tengo la oportunidad de ver otro modelo que él que siempre viví al otro lado. Y aunque ahora estoy muy lejos de mi propia madre, tendré aún mas aprecio por el rol que tuvo en mi vida y mas aprecio por el ciclo qué decidí seguir al tener mi propia hija hace casi tres años.
Les doy las gracias a las dos, a toda la gente que me han apoyado en ese trayectoria. Siendo una madre no es algo fácil, pero es uno de las mejores decisiones que he tomado en mi vida. Ser madre coincidió con muchas cosas nuevas para mí: llegué a ser coautora de un libro de nuevo, conseguí ciudadanía mexicana, y empezé a trabajar mas, para sacar mi familia adelante. Siendo madre me ha impulsado hacer todo lo que hago con más pasión porque ahora no solo tengo una idea teórico de dejar una huella en este mundo, sé que cada cosa que hago será trasmitida a mi hija y quiero que ella tenga la oportunidad de vivir en un mundo lleno con más paz y belleza que violencia y destrucción. Y por eso agradezco cada día que he tenido la bendición de ser no solamente una hija, pero también una madre—independientemente de si el conjunto de felicitaciones sucede a través de dos dias o sólo uno. 

September 15, 2012

Musings on the Eve of Mexican Independence Day | Binational Family Conversations on Race and Identity

Tonight is the eve of Mexican Independence Day.
According to Wikipedia, "Mexico, in the second article of its Constitution, is defined as a "pluricultural" nation in recognition of the diverse ethnic groups that constitute it, and in which the indigenous peoples are the original foundation." 
So, like its sister country to the north, Mexico is a free state that shook off its European colonial monarchy, that also shares a vast diversity of native North American as well as Old World cultural heritage. But in my opinion, Mexico appear to differ from the U.S. in that a smaller percentage of its people seem to make a point of embracing their racial roots.
My observations are probably skewed by where I've lived previously in the U.S.—mostly in liberal urban areas, and now Mexico—in a region characterized by heavy colonial influence compared to states like Oaxaca or Chiapas where indigenous influence is stronger.
But either way, I’ve always noticed how differently people choose to identify themselves culturally or racially. I know that whole college courses and even degrees are dedicated to this type of topic, and I've had very little formal study of it. But as a dual citizen with two feet planted in both my birth country of the U.S. and my home country of Mexico, with a binational and bilingual daughter and a Mexican husband, these type of questions will never cease to pique my interest. 
A few days ago, my little family and I were listening to music while having lunch. My 2 year old daughter, sitting in her highchair, began bobbing her head to the rhythms of Jay-Z & Alicia Keys' Empire State of Mind.
My husband Margo asked her if she was from New York, and then answered for her "no, you're from Queretaro."
I said, "yeah, well, she's from NY through me—her mama's from NY!" We both laughed. 
As I went over to stir the nopales I was cooking, I thought about how there are millions of people who call themselves African American, even though they themselves aren't from Africa nor do they even have recent relatives from there, although their distant ancestors came from there many generations ago.
"Can you imagine if someone's great-great-great-great-grandparent was from Mexico, do you think they'd call themselves Mexican American?" I asked my husband.
To use myself as an example, my great-grandparents on my father's side are from Mexico, and I even became a naturalized Mexican citizen last year through marriage with my husband. But I haven't yet referred to myself as Mexican American.
Margo is a born and bred Queretano. "Yeah right...they'd probably call themselves something else," he said. 
"Probably white," I replied, "Or Hispanic," I ventured. 
I was thinking of my own "whiteness." After growing up of German and Mexican ancestry in a heavily Italian and Polish neighborhood in Upstate New York, most people assumed Salgado was Italian. On college applications, I checked off "other" and wrote in 3 different races—white/Caucasian, Hispanic, and Native American, to reflect my mixed European ancestry and the mixed mestizo ancestry. Mestizo refers to the indigenous Mexican Indian/Spanish blend that characterizes the great majority of Mexican people, but many people call Mexicans or other Latin Americans "Spanish." In fact, that's the definition of the regularly used term Hispanic. 
Why is that? Why do people choose to identify themselves with one ancestry over another? The answers should be fairly obvious, but there seem to be a lot of exceptions to the rule, depending on where you're from or where you grow up.
"Does that mean that most Mexican Americans have less pride in their heritage than most African Americans?" I asked my husband. I wasn't thinking of the Chicano pride movement back in the 70's, but modern Mexican Americans by definition (such as myself)—I'm not sure if the pride in cultural heritage extends as uniformly to 3rd or 4th generation individuals these days as it does with other minority groups.
"I think so," he said. "I think it's because we have a lot of discrimination in this culture. A lot of Mexicans are embarrassed to say they're indios (Indians or native peoples) because they've been prejudiced against them for so long. So people say they've got a Spanish grandfather, grandmother, etc."
Margo's family didn't exactly raise him to take pride in his Otomi roots, in fact they whipped him to get him to go to Catholic church every Sunday and kiss his godparents' hands. But somehow he saw past the religious zealotry to become more of a free-thinker as a teenager.
"I wonder if because of the civil rights movement in the U.S., people feel safer to show off their heritage," I mused. "If you have an indigenous grandfather or grandmother, you're likely to tell everyone about it, be proud of it."
And yet, in the next song, Lakota singer/songwriter John Trudell laments the isolation of native people of the United States. "Industrial reservations, tyranny stakes its claims. Blue Indians, emotional siege in civilized state....glory and gold lead a desperate chase. Blue Indian, melting pot, ruling classes, haves and have nots." It's from his album Blue Indians, and it's got a lot of good food for thought.
Today for our Independence Eve dinner, my husband made vegetable noodle soup and bean tacos while I worked on finishing a translation for a botanical garden in Sinaloa state. The document I was working on described historical figures in Mexican botany—from Mexican explorers to the Jesuits to Mexican female scientists and even a researcher from Arizona.
When I told my husband about what I was working on, he wondered aloud ¨You mean like conquistadores? The enslavers?"
"No..." I admonished him. "The people were just interested in plants." Safe assumption, right? Being a plant person myself...
Instead of heading out to the festivities downtown, we avoided the crowds and drunk drivers and went for a walk out in his father's cornfield. Back home, I made Mexican chocolate.
I can't claim to truly understand the reasons behind why we choose to embrace some parts of ourselves or why we wish to cast aside the others. But I am glad that I can ask these questions and explore them freely with my partner so we can at least come close to modeling honesty, respect, and pride for our ancestry with our daughter wherever possible—no matter how tangled or frayed our roots end up throughout our lives.

July 15, 2011

Summer Fruits

My first trip to the States with my daughter is coming to an end soon. Although there's lots I could tell about it, such as how it feels to see her respond to family, how it feels to travel without my husband, what it feels like to go through reverse culture shock every year when I come back in contact with the U.S., I was most compelled to write about an experience I had yesterday morning. I think it's because it embodies a lot of what has meaning for me, being from Upstate New York, and what I've taken away from it even when I'm far—

I went to visit my grandmother's house next door. There is a small forest between hers and my parents' houses, where songbirds call every morning. I pushed the umbrella stroller up the driveway, across the front yard, and into her backyard, under the huge maple tree and bumping over its roots, to the raspberry patch in the backyard. When I was a kid I used to help pick quarts which we'd either eat as a family or they'd sell in a roadside stand or trade with the uncle across the street for tomatoes. Now, as I approached with the baby cooing, they were overgrown with grass and sprawling every which way. My grandfather, who was probably responsible for pruning the canes, has long since passed, and my grandma is frail at 89. In any case, I was delighted to see a few red ones peeking out, so I picked several and then went into the house. My cousin, who lives with my grandma, came out to hold the baby while I filled a quart basket quickly, stepping through the thorny branches and lifting them up and to the side to expose ripe fruits without a scratch as only one who's done it for years can do.

Soon, my grandma was dressed and had come out with her cane and another quart basket. Although she wanted to pick some herself, I  worriedly observed her as she wobbled by the bushes. "Oh my God," she exclaimed when she saw how overgrown the patch had become. "There's still a lot of good ones in here," I said, and I worked quickly to fill another half quart after she passed me a few handfuls. But when I saw she'd crushed a red berry on her Keds and was having trouble backing up, I recommended we head back in for the heat and that my skin was getting itchy from the grass—I didn't want her to take a tumble in the brambles. So we headed back in, and I plotted my raspberry mousse pie while explaining to my grandma why I'd be holding off on letting the baby try berries until she was a year old. She couldn't quite understand the gist and I found myself wondering what the wisdom of following the recommendations to a T were anyways.

Before my grandmother had come out, I'd asked my cousin if he wasn't too agriculturally inclined. "Why do you ask," he said. "Oh, I don't know," I replied, "I guess it just strikes me as a little sad that his raspberry patch is going to pot." I was thinking of the days when the garden was well-tended, even to the times I've been told about when my grandmother's own mother had a flourshing production farm that brought the family close to self-sufficiency during Depression and war times. It seems as if with the passing of every generation, a little more of the old ways are lost. And so, in an effort to reverse this trend, like others who are interested in local agriculture and restoration, I'm trying to establish our own sustainable garden down in the semidesert where we live. It's a combination of organic gardening and native plant conservation. It means growing fruit and pine trees on recycled greywater lines alongside kale, carrots, and squash in raised beds, near the mesquites, nopales, and agaves that shore up the hillside and the chilitos and garambullos, cacti who give us our own wild southern summer fruits.

Even so, there's something unnerving about being the first in four or five generations of the maternal line to break ground in an unfamiliar land. I've been trying to put my finger on what's the essence of what I'll miss when I go, and the closest I can come to is the familiarity of the verdant tree cover around my parents' house, the black-capped chickadee and cardinal songs issuing from the leaves, the easy laughter of us hanging out on the family room floor watching the baby play with her new American toys. But I must "bloom where I'm planted," as my mom names the dictum that I'm trying to follow. As nurserymen know, it's not so easy for roots to overcome transplant shock, especially when the seedling is put in a climate entirely different than the one it's adapted to. But part of evolution is playing with the hand life deals you, leading to survival of the species over time.

And so I was comforted to hear my grandmother say something that surprised me when she observed the raspberry patch in 'ruins'. "Forever wild," she declared. My cousin said it was in reference to an Audubon campaign he'd told her about, one that promotes the reclaiming of native habitat in backyards. I had to admit, the thought of the raspberries going feral under the sumac and providing sustenance to the local wildlife, the whole of which would eventually give way to more maple forest—after all, the ferns and wild strawberries are already moving in—was just as sweet as the thought of human hands picking and enjoying the ruby red fruits. It helps me not think of the alternative, what's already happened in most of the neighborhood and what's happening again down where I live—the wholesale development of open space. It pains me that I don't have much control over the destiny of my old backyard haunts, that I care for so much, but must be so far from. But if my grandma, who's spent her entire life tending cultivated patches, could be OK with releasing the raspberry patch into the hands of nature and the unknown future, so can I.

June 29, 2011

9 in, 9 out, and Northward Bound

A little over a week ago, my baby girl was nine months old. The date held a lot of significance for me, whether it was because she'd spent an equal amount of time in the womb and out of the womb, because all the pregnancy fitness magazines say you should expect it to take at least that long for you to get your pre-pregnancy body back (I don't quite), or that she's got one more season to go til she's a year old.

Enthused by the auspicious-feeling date, I told Margo it was high time we pulled that placenta we'd saved from the birth, which had been hiding out in the freezer ever since. You may not have known that some cultures consider the placenta a deceased twin. Or that there's a Chinese medicine custom of consuming it in capsules for post-partum or menopausal complaints. Many people give no thought to the fact that many placentas simply fall down trash chutes after birth. Whereas we didn't feel quite the same as the traditional cultures do about our placenta, we also didn't have such little regard for it as to let it get hauled off to the garbage.

So we settled for something in the middle. We said a few words and planted it under a tree in our yard. When I told my midwife friend in San Miguel, whose website was where I learned about the above customs, she said "Cool!" When I told my mom, she said, "Ohhh." (Or was it "eww"?) But no matter—it was our idea that it'd nourish a beautiful mesquite that the baby will someday climb in when she is older. So literally, it will help her put down roots in what's a new land for her maternal lineage (I was fourth-generation Northern Forest girl, she is a first-generation Semidesierto Queretana).

Now that that's out of the way, we're ready to show that we're both big girls. The baby and I will be flying up by ourselves to go visit her grandparents in those verdant landscapes of Upstate New York. I must put aside my misgivings about having to travel without her father, of having this ongoing, frustrating status as a binational family without certain rights and privileges. Although it's impossible for the bitterness to disappear entirely, I will have to find a way to enjoy my time there, for my daughter's sake. She must meet her northern great-grandmother, her uncle, great-aunts and uncles. I want to introduce her to the land where I grew up, where I was inspired to become an ecologist and a teacher. I want to do it with enough gusto to convince her too that it is worth continuing to dream about returning to someday, as an entire family. I pray that the universe will conspire to help me pull it off, because God knows it's not just about me.

January 3, 2011

Selected Blog Archives from 2006-2010 (Yahoo)

These posts encompass the time from when I first moved to Mexico with my husband Margarito, to our first winter with our daughter.  Together, they cover a lot of territory!

2006
2007
 2008
2009
2010