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.

Patience, Public Health Care, and No More Mr. Nice People—VOTA MAÑANA PAISANOS

I'm not usually a proponent of time flying, but we are well ready for June to be OVER. Life ain't often a bowl of cherries here, but June seemed to be particularly rough for this family. Heck, it's been a rough spring. After the fire from the lightning strike, then it was Margo's finger. Then a round of Giardia for us all. Then I got food poisoning. Baby fell down and split her lip. I finally went to a naturopath and my tummy is feeling much better, but then Margo got stung by a scorpion. I'm looking forward to turning the page on the calendar.

As if all this wasn't enough, Thursday, Margo's 75-year old father got into a serious accident in his truck when he was headed out to his cornfields. I asked Margo, "what the hell, do we have a hex on us or something?" Margo, who doesn't have a superstitious bone in his body, replied deadpan "maybe it's time for you to get out your brujeria," referring to my incense. The idea of a shamanic limpia doesn't sound half bad right now. Too bad it's too late for the elections tomorrow.

Amidst all this chaos, I've been working busily on my last chapter in Amor and Exile, an emotional task in and of itself. Part of me is desperate to finish and get it over with, part of me is breathlessly excited to figure out how we're going to publish, and a little bit of me is sad that such an absorbing and satisfying project will soon come to an end.

In the book, one of the biggest changes I've noted in myself in the nearly six years since I had to relocate to Mexico is that I've (forcibly) become a more patient person. I say forcibly because I haven't always accepted that change in myself, especially when running up against bureacratic red tape that I've encountered in Mexican institutions. But since there's a different pace of life here than the one I was raised in in New York, I've had no choice but to be patient with my in-laws, with friends, coworkers, land titles, myself even. And I do think I'm a slightly better person as a result.

But I'd be lying if I said I've become uniformly patient with everything across the board. I might be more patient with individuals, for example tonight when we went to get a haircut with Margo's cousin. We called at 5:30 to see if she was free, and she replied come at 6:30. But when we got there at that time, she was coloring one woman's hair and cutting another's, while another was waiting in front of us. I did get a little huffy, but I also did calm down and wait—until a little after 7 pm. After all, you can't beat a haircut for $2 bucks. And it's not like we had anything better to do.

You see, I can be patient when I'm just killing time waiting for something else. I'm talking about waiting for news about Margo's father, mi suegro. And I'm finding that I'm not quite so patient when it comes to health matters. Ever since his accident Thursday morning, we've been waiting for something concrete to happen in his treatment, a sign that he'll definitely be OK. But now, almost 60 hours later, there's still no green light on his surgery to fix two crushed vertebrae in his neck (C4 & C5), no assurance he won't be coming home on a respirator.

Unfortunately, it's not a matter I have much power to affect—not from an logistical nor from an economic standpoint. Maybe that's what upsets me so much about it. The whole situation reminds me of what happened when Margo's mother had a stroke—the entire family just waited patiently while she was channeled back and forth between the clinic and home and to various practitioners who failed to consider her need for rehabilitation urgent. No one was happy that she was ill, but neither did anyone seem as upset as me that it was taking so long for her to get sent to physical therapy. Eventually, almost two months after her stroke, she did get sent to therapy, and recovered a good deal of the use of her left side, but she's still too weak to cook or clean for herself, and her quality of life has significantly diminished. Of course it's impossible to know if this is because of the delay in therapy.

In the case of my suegro, he was taken directly from the site of the accident to the state hospital. There, they decided they'd transfer him to the hospital where he's insured as a pensioner (IMSS, stands for Instituto Medico de Seguro Social). It took TWELVE hours and more than 6 visits back and forth between clinics and copy shops for Margo to get the necessary paperwork to get his father moved. By the time he was transferred, it was almost 11 pm. More than half a day had passed since his accident.

All the while, they had full knowledge that he had broken or dislocated vertebrae. It was the opinion of the treating ER doctor who received him that he'd need to be sent to Mexico City for treatment, they didn't have the right equipment in Queretaro. Even so, it took another EIGHTEEN HOURS, to Friday 6 pm, for the attending neurologist to evaluate his scans and confirm that he'd need to be sent to the specialist hospital 3 hours away in Mexico City. He wasn't sent until 11 pm that night, by ambulance.

Meanwhile, what's incredible is that my suegro was totally conscious, aside from catnaps, and could move all parts of his body. But just a tiny lesson in vertebral anatomy belies the heavy risk of his situation—whether spinal cord damage is sustained above or below the C6 vertebra (his fractures are at C4 & 5) determines whether you'll become a paraplegic or a quadriplegic. Even so, despite now being at the trauma center in Mexico City since 2 am this morning, he STILL hasn't received a green light for the surgery. We were under the impression that with the determination sent from Queretaro, he'd be seen immediately upon arrival. Not so.

As of 8 pm this evening, now almost 60 hours since his accident, the word is that he is still in observation and they are evaluating his tomography to see if his vertebral fractures are due to an old injury or the car crash. WTF? Prior to the crash, he is one of the most physically fit members of this family who never complains of aches or pains, and after the crash he had bruises all over his body, a 3-inch laceration on the back of his head and bleeding on the brain (not to mention the previous hospital had already determined the necessity of surgical vertebral replacement). Does this require a rocket scientist?

Why they are taking their time on this is beyond my capability of understanding. When I say this to Margo, or his brother who accompanied him to the DF, they respond that there are a lot of other people with worse injuries in line in front of them. Now, I understand the need for triage, and I don't know exactly what their system is here at the IMSS trauma centers, but if you continually put someone in line behind every more traumatic patient that arrives, you'll be waiting all year because car accidents are one of the top causes of death here. And sadly, exceedingly long waits appear to be the norm, as I found on one forum with comments about IMSS service at that particular hospital.

As soon as I heard about the crash, I immediately recommended a private hospital. I raised the same issue with my suegra's stroke 2 years ago, and I received the same response this week: "where else would we take him?" And I say, to Hospital Angeles? Medica Tec 100? (The first rate hospitals in this city). I then get the same response: "but they're too expensive." And then I try to give up the suggestion, respect their decision (although I really can't get it out of my head). The reason I'm frustrated is because I see a family, a matrix of people, who could get access to the necessary resources but don't consider them an option for a case like this, where their health hangs in the balance. Margo's father has several landholdings, a herd of cows, and several vehicles and pieces of valuable heavy machinery that could easily be cashed in for better treatment. To Margo's credit, he's tried to recommend long-term planning for emergencies/retirement age before, but his ideas probably seem foreign to a family who's always lived from hand to mouth (or maybe they sound too much like his wife's). But the brothers who drive those vehicles and operate that heavy machinery that their father bought haven't volunteered to sell a single one—just a few hours ago I saw one getting drunk and the other has only called once in the last 48 hours.

I try to respect the family's acceptance of the need to just wait, emulate their patience, but it's so hard, especially when I suspect it's completely unnecessary, and just an artifact of a several-decades long habit of complacency. When I think about my father-in-law laying there in a hospital bed, a millimeter away from becoming quadriplegic, I just can't accept that patiently waiting is the only option. But why is it that I'm the only one who seems so intent that there's several ways that this situation could be made better? I try to breathe deeply, ask my husband how he feels. He replies simply, "frustrated." I empathize, deeply. Even though my father-in-law and I are not close, he does not deserve to suffer. I want to see him come home walking—still be able to eat my baked goods he can sniff from a football field away, play with his granddaughter. Or realize what he's been missing by spending so much time on the farm and not with his enormous family.

I'll take some lessons away from this experience, toward my own family's health. For the last couple years, we've been enrolled in the even more basic Seguro Popular universal health care system here in Mexico. I've considered it backup catastrophic insurance, and the truth is it's come in handy a couple times, like when Margo got stung by a scorpion—we didn't pay a dime. We usually pay out of pocket for private doctors' visits. When I had my appendix out last year, it caught me by surprise, and I had to borrow money from my parents to have the surgery in a private clinic. Afterwards, I started thinking, maybe I should have sucked it up and gone to the public hospital. But now, after seeing firsthand what happens in the case of a true emergency, how proper care is delayed again and again, I don't feel quite the same conviction. My only other option is private health insurance—the kind that Americans are now forced to carry, for their own benefit. I'm not obligated to have it, and I'm not even sure I could afford it, but it's something I want to look into.

When I told this to Margo, he cynically replied, "it'd be just the same service, you'll see." Somehow I doubt that. The difference between the service I've received at the IMSS clinics (I did enroll when Margo had a company job a few years ago, just to "check it out") and the private clinics is like night and day.

I've been told this it how it works in the public health system. That's it's good service but that it takes a long time. I'm afraid that in some cases, taking a long time is not good enough. Sometimes it's just not better late than never—it's got to be NOW.

p.s. I would have thought that on the eve of the 2012 Mexican presidential elections, I'd be blogging about that topic instead. But almost everyday of this month, with the exception of a few Facebook posts here and there, the personal has forced its way into precedence over the political in my life. I feel a bit badly about that. But it's also my first presidential election as a newly naturalized Mexican citizen and part of me thinks it's important to not just vote, but absorb the whole panorama before I start shooting my mouth off. On the other hand, I see a lot of parallels between this "exceedingly patient" syndrome I've encountered, and the citizenry's de facto acceptance of continual abuses of corruption and mismanagement of public funds at the hands of a government and media endowed with a significantly lopsided amount of power. Let's not be patient, paisanos—let's get change where it's needed, NOW.

The Real Easter Basket

Two months have passed since I began working part-time at an English school. It's been nice to get out of the house, I enjoy the personal interactions, and I can now breathe a little easier on the economic side of things, but it's had its expected flip-side results as well. I'm quite tired every day, I worry I'm not giving enough undivided attention to my family (some correspondences are suffering), my hip pain has returned, and my amount of free time to dedicate to creative pursuits such as writing, art, and gardening has taken a hit.

But there're also some undeniably wonderful things happening at the same time—the growth of our daughter, the flourishing of our orchard and flock of chickens, even the growth of some friendships and personal strength. I tend to believe as is in nature, also is with people, and vice versa. Even when it seems like I have little extra time for anything, the above things are both a blessing and a natural result of small, diligent, patient efforts toward progress, combined with the wonderfully powerful and cyclic elements of nature.

I'm the kind of person who likes to answer every personal email I receive, but it hasn't always been possible with my new schedule. But one of the side effects of not always being the most responsive, or first to reach out, has been to find out which friendships have perservered despite my low levels of maintenance. It reveals a connection that can stand the test of time.

I never would have guessed that something as simple as, when we built our house, placing a window facing a mesquite tree, would bring so much enjoyment from the center of our home—seeing its vibrant, almost flourescent green leaved branches waving gently in the breeze and filled with songbirds coming to take a drink from a dish of water on the ground below it. It took years of gently inviting wildlife to our yard and runoff from our roof directed to the mesquite's roots for this whole scene to develop.

There's a weedy grass that got out of control in our yard while we were otherwise occupied with parenting duties, and when I finally decided to reclaim my garden and started letting my daughter come outside and explore while we worked, we'd get covered with its sticky seeds. Even the regular feeling of desperation of just walking outside for a few minutes to pick greens or feed the animals, only to spend almost half an hour just picking the spines out of our pantlegs (and weeks afterward trying to eradicate it), managed to turn into a unexpected moment of repose, albeit a month or two later. Just today, my daughter and I were standing in the kitchen after coming in from outside and I noticed she was prostrate on the floor behind me. At first, since she has a frustrating puppy-like characteristic of chewing shoes, I impatiently said, no touch! But when I looked down, I realized she was picking seeds off the bottom of my pantleg and couldn't help but smile. This is a 17-month old, who picks kale leaves and feeds them to our chickens—why had I assumed she was just getting into trouble instead of doing something constructive? I took a deep breath, stooped down, and hugged and thanked her, acknowledging to myself that I'd judged the moment too quickly.

The living things in our garden have been in a relative state of neglect, with the exception of our flock of chickens. They didn't lay a single egg for almost 4 months this past winter, and we were starting to wonder if our efforts to keep them fed and safe were in vain. Our older chickens almost got passed over for new chicks to replace them. But then miraculously, almost a month ago, they began laying again, and right now, not one but two of them are sitting on eggs in the nest, in the hopes that they will become first time moms to some fuzzy little chicks in less than a couple weeks. In checking up on them last night I observed that one of the 7 eggs they'd laid and were brooding was crushed and smeared over the others. I couldn't figure out if it was them or the other chickens coming in and stepping on them. So I decided to try and experiment with a swinging door so they could get out and eat and drink water once or twice a day but that would block the other two hens from coming in, who'd have to lay their eggs in a lower nest box. As I was snipping and collecting grass from around the yard, and placing it in the coop, rearranging the eggs carefully, I couldn't help but think of an Easter basket. Then I thought, duh, these *were* the original Easter egg hunts! Even though I probably won't have time or money to do up a fancy colorful gift basket like the kind we used to get as kids, we'll have the satisfaction of having the real thing.

Not to be trite, but cliches describe these situations well—finding the silver lining of every cloud, or asking yourself what you can learn from a situation. My own personal list goes on, but I hope I've made my point. In these particular moments, I made a mental note that sometimes even the most disdainful situations can have surprisingly sweet results—especially if you take the time to look for them.

Milestones Along the Road to Normal

Several milestones are happening at this time for my family. Almost a year has passed since our daughter was born. My Mexican naturalization is impending. It's been almost five years since we arrived in Mexico. We need to wait out a ten-year period before we're able to apply for any waivers or pardons on the way to applying for a visa for Margo to legally re-enter the U.S. So in other words, we're "halfway there."

To me, it feels both ironic and "just right" that a lot of these milestones run together. One of the things I used to say before we moved to Mexico, when people listened in horror that we had to wait at least 10 years before we could even apply for his visa, was "if I can last ten years in a foreign country, I may not even need or want to move back."

If you had asked me about that statement the first year, or even my third year here, I'd be hard pressed to imagine being able to stick out even the first half. Even though I was blessed with all sorts of opportunities like building my home, I couldn't see the forest for the trees because of the stress of adjusting culturally. Life was inevitably never going to be the same, and that took time to accept. Reinventing myself professionally was and is an ongoing process, something I'm still working toward feeling comfortable about (no pun intended). Even into my fourth year here, when I fantasized about having a child but couldn't visualize what it would be like, finding out I was pregnant was a crisis for me until I got a caregiver support network in place.

Motherhood brought on a second round of social opportunity, different than the first one I experienced in 2008 when I first started meeting expats here. Several new friends were made through mom's groups—it still amazes me that my daughter led me to be more social before she was even born, and that continues now that she's here. Befriending a couple in town who're here for the same voluntary deportation and "life on hold" problem as Margo and I, made me realize how much I have to offer in terms of just plain "been there" kind of advice.

Now, having made it to "halfway," not just us, but us with a baby in tow, feels like a major accomplishment. Even though we still have our ups and downs, with downs that can still often feel fairly low, the ups are getting more frequent and the spaces in between feel more "normal." My therapist and other friends have always wondered out loud to me: what is normal, anyways, Nicole? A book I read about the emotional adjustments that occur before, during and after pregnancy even has a chapter entitled "The New Normal." The word is often used to refer to an average state of being—an elusive social construct that is often mentioned but rarely achieved.

In my case, "normal" invokes a happier, calmer existence—a state that I've often experienced but couldn't always count on. You could say that distance from family, friends, and the comforts of my homeland, things I miss in NY & CA; contribute to a feeling of disorientation when faced with things that throw me for a loop here, such as a lack of law enforcement, cultural differences, or widespread appreciation for nature that I cherish so much.

And yet, as anyone who's had children or has lived a long-term traumatic situation knows (just for the record, although they're in the same sentence, I don't consider the former to equal the latter!), patience can go a long way in softening your response to life. Even though I hated to admit it before I finally decided to have kids, just the simple act of aging and maturing can increase your capacity to tolerate certain things. Or even to let things happen themselves, maybe with your assistance, but without your direct control. Sort of how the revered and controversial Sikh guru Yogi Bhajan says: "patience pays."

So I find myself incredibly grateful for all the things that have occurred in my life that have gotten me to this point: having the courage to move far from home despite how painful it can often be, having been able to see through the most frustrating moments of adjusting to a new country in order to stay with my husband, even opting to obtain naturalization in that country...having had our daughter, and the good fortune to have a wonderful partner who wants to raise our daughter with a much different relationship than he had with his own father.

I'm grateful for the transformation I was able to make as a very scared, tentative, worrisome expecting woman into a confident, loving mother who makes mistakes but knows that my love for my daughter is the most important thing. I am grateful for the little things. I am grateful that I know that I'll continue to be more and more so as the years go by.

It dawned on me that anyone who's been transplanted around the world or even from one side of town to the other could be grappling with these same feelings. I realized that I knew more than just a few folks with binational family living situations and similar interests, and started an online group with the hope it might connect some of us, or even grow. It might spark something, it might fizzle, but at least the seed was planted.

Which leads me to believe I could be experiencing the beginnings of yet another milestone that, since leaving the States, has felt difficult to regain—what my therapist refers to as "finding my tribe." It's rapidly moving target that's also constantly shapeshifting. But while simply throwing a frisbee around with friends at a beautiful state park this weekend, I declared that doing things like this made me feel "normal." They all laughed at me, but I have a feeling they know what I meant.

Un hombre verdadero

A couple weeks ago I saw a post claiming that a study in Michoacan, Mexico revealed that 40% of the middle school girls in that state wished they had a narco for a boyfriend. Wow, I thought, how messed up is that? I can't comment much on this reference to the article, which criticizes education and media policy's role in this type of problem. First of all, I'm not yet a citizen, so it's not my moral or legal place to do so. I also don't feel like I've been here long enough to make in-depth analyses about what's uniquely dysfunctional about Mexico, especially considering how my own country is embarassingly involved with their illicit affairs. 

But that doesn't mean it doesn't get me thinking and talking it over with folks here. When I brought it up at the dinner table with my husband and another native of Queretaro, we agreed that while it's a difficult problem with complex causes; ignorance, misguided priorities, and lack of self-respect are to blame. I'm not here to question certain Mexican girls' aspirations—if what they want is money for fake nails and gold hoops at whatever cost, that's their prerogative. I certainly will be doing my best to inculcate values in my daughter to allow her to see broader horizons, and I feel for the families that are helpless to steer their kids in a different direction, that is if they aren't also caught up in the same game.


Articles like this get to me because they just add credence to the notion that Mexico is the pits, as if there's nothing else going on but narcos and tequila. Perhaps more importantly, it overlooks the fact that there are a lot of people here who have more important things to be worried about, such as working in legitimate professions, raising their children to be productive members of society. That's the Mexico I know and love, especially the one that's proud of itself and its roots.

No one inspires me more in that regard than my husband. Although he was subject to the same type of poverty (if not worse) as the young women so inclined to love narcos, he managed to escape that lifestyle. As the ninth son of fourteen in a farming family, he had to shove off from school to help his dad with his herd of cows. In the barrio where he grew up, there were plenty of opportunities to become an alcoholic or glue addict, but although he hung with many young men who got sucked in, he always refused to partake. While he wasn't an angel in his youth, one thing he did not do was fall victim to the illusion that intoxicants (or selling them) were the way to success in life. Ten years ago, when we first began dating, after hearing the stories he'd tell me about his youth, I was amazed he turned out as he did. To the present day, I am still impressed (sometimes exasperated) with how straight and narrow he is, simply concerned about making a clean living, caring for his family, and enjoying the best that life has to offer. I feel fortunate to have such a great partner.

When I ask myself (or him) what was that allowed him to resist the degrading forces that so many other youth succumb to, the only thing that really stands out is his fierce individualism, and level of self-respect. Having grown up on the land, working it with his bare hands, he is humble in an earthy sort of way, but he has this unashamed attitude about his roots—mestizo, campesino, moreno, whatever—he is proud of who he is, and doesn't want to be someone else.

These mamis don't need narcos for a good time

Last week we were at a festival of local indigenous dance troupes. It was the Celebration of the National Day of the Chichimec Dancers, and it was our daughter's first attendance at an event like this. It's rare to see fairly authentic events such as these (at least in Queretaro state), but they are glorious to behold when they happen. The incredible talent, gorgeous costumes, obvious adoration of ancient customs (Aztec, in the case of the local troupe we saw) left me feeling inspired for what is still held sacred here. It seems as if more "native pride" kind of events could go a long way toward rebuilding Mexico's reputation which has been taking a beating in the media lately.

But that might be a bold statement coming from a foreigner, since things aren't quite the same here as they are where I'm from. My husband and I first talked about this when we met in the U.S., and I asked him what tribe his ancestors were from—he was sporting long, black hair at the time, and with that and his dark cinnamon skin, it was obvious that he was of indigenous heritage. "I'm not really sure," he had responded. But he saw all the ethnic and cultural pride that many people have in the U.S.—be it Asian, gay, black, Native American, or Irish—the results of the Civil Rights movement are evident to a person from a country where that same movement hasn't yet occurred. I was shocked when I found out many Mexicans don't embrace their ancestry.  He explained that "many people in Mexico consider indio an insult, because they think it means ignorant. But I'm not ashamed to be indio, that's who I am," he said. Thank god, I thought, because I want to raise my daughter to be proud of her roots.

There are plenty of things that frustrate him about his home country. But that doesn't mean he will trade in his integrity for bling, or his morality for a shiny new truck. With one foot planted firmly in the past, the other in the future, and his head squarely on his shoulders in the present, he'll keep putting his nose to the grindstone to "sacarnos adelante" however modest this chapter of our life might be. I asked him "what's left of the Aztecs now?" on our way home from the dances. "The food, the plants...the land," he answered wistfully. I'd add, real men like you, baby—"hombres verdaderos." Happy Birthday mi amor.

Lying to Ourselves

On the north side of the "Western" Hemisphere there is a trilateral juxtaposition of geopolitical boundaries referred to as Canada, United States, and Mexico-which really is a landmass called North America- perhaps it is most accurately known as Turtle Island, as many First Nation and bioregionalist people have called it....

In any case, for reasons you can find in myriad history books and magazines, the center geographical space in that landmass -the United States- long ago a thriving hub of fairly freely moving indigenous communities and commerce routes for the entire continent, has in 500 years become a magnet for migrants worldwide.  At first this was met with suspicion (then welcome for some) on the part of the indigenous people. It would be outside the scope of my ability to fully summarize the variety of indigenous reactions to the European entry and later violent conquest of their lands.  But suffice it to say that these people remain, for better or for worse, in their ancestral lands, while the "white man" now claims original stake to the country of which it technically, was once merely a guest.

The persons in control of these geopolitical zones, no matter what color their skin, now demand duly stamped pieces of paper to prove a person's right to move autonomously across arbitrary lines determined by "national laws," and "executive powers" and woe to the person who does not, in their eyes, meet the qualifications of someone fit to travel freely across those lines.

Isn't that ironic? It's as if someone came into your home against your will, you tried to be nice to them, but they eventually killed half your family, set up shop in your front yard, and then proceeded to dictate who could come over to party at your house and then acted like you never had anything to do with the situation and that what they were doing was perfectly justified. This might sound like a bit of a weird interpretation of national borders and immigration law to you.  But it's because we, with average lifespans of about 80 years, and our greatly enhanced modern ability to forget the lessons of history, can very easily overlook all that's happened on this corner of the world in the last 500+ years. It's especially easy for us to act as if we are absolutely entitled to those papers and the rights that come with them, especially when it means our right to a Spring Break vacation in Cabo- but not a  Northward vacation for the Southern folks that'll be serving your all-inclusive Brunch.

I might be a little more bitter than most because, although I myself am not restrained in my movement because I hail from the middle latitudes by birth, was lucky enough to experience birth in the brain center of this get rich quick and easy scheme, my husband happened to be born en el otro lado (on the other side) to parents also of el otro lado and for that reason (and many other I have not mentioned nor have space and time to do so here) he is not deemed appropriate for northern travel and instance.  My daughter, oddly, is. That's because although she was also born en el otro lado like her dad, she also hailed from my this middle latitude mother's womb- but I digress.

The reason why I write is because three occurrences converge in space and time in this little person's life that make me reflect on the idiocy of current immigration law:

1. My husband (who for at least the next 5 years won't be able to begin to apply for a U.S. visa & for that reason can't legally travel there) was denied a Canadian tourist visa earlier this month.  Bottom line results of this small act are; he probably will never see my grandmother again (she is almost 90 and can't come here to Mexico), and I will be forced to travel alone with our infant daughter north so she can meet her great-grandaughter, unless some small miracle happens and some angels come to help me.
2. A high-profile Dreamer (student immigration rights activist in the U.S.) is being very seriously threatened with deportation http://prernalal.com/2011/04/gw-law-student-prepares-for-the-trial-of-her-life/
3. A good friend of ours, who has not seen my husband since we moved here to Mexico in 2006, is visiting us for Spring Break.  In reminiscing about what our life used to be up in the U.S., I am forced to remember all the things I miss- but also what makes me most angry about this truly unjust situation.

Honestly, as Americans we have more rights and privileges than we know what to do with.  But despite this, we are probably the #1 complainers in the world. (Do they have stats on that? I am pretty sure we are at least ranked one of the most unhappy cultures)  At what cost do we alienate the rest of the world, convincing our neighbors to do the same, even to our best and brightest, whether they have exactly the right order of stamps on their multiple sheafs of paper.  When will we grow up and see that, playground rules aside, we're not doing ourselves any favors by continuing to lie to ourselves that we're all about "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," but that what we're really about is getting whatever we want, when we want it, no matter who we have to step on to get it, and that we are exporting that way of life around the world and then wondering why we have so much violence and so many problems?

Visiting the Home of the Aztecs

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I am undertaking several major governmental paperwork items this spring, seriously, a large enough pile to constitute a part-time job for a few months.  This past week I finally came to grips with the fact that I'd have to go down to Mexico City (DF) to complete two of the requirements for two separate goals- a Constancia de No Antecedentes Penales Federales (Federal Criminal Record or lack thereof) at the Secretaria de Seguridad Publica Federal, and apply for the baby's U.S. Social Security number at the U.S. Embassy.  While I'm not going to repeat the entire, lengthy, process of finding the contact information, the requirements to fulfill my requirements, and the number of hours it took me to prepare a short folder of precious documents to ensure a successful outing, you'll have to trust me that there are many good reasons individuals hire lawyers to take care of these projects for them.

But of course since I am so D-I-Y, I've always done my Mexican visa applications myself every year and now I figured I was ready for the big leagues- naturalization and all of the baby & Margo's international papers as well.  And so although I knew this DF trip was coming up, I was putting it off since it's kind of a hassle, costly, and time-consuming.  I wasn't even sure I myself had to go, was hoping the SS# could be done in the mail and that Margo could stand in line for me for the record.  But on Monday came the moment when I found out none of this was possible and that it couldn't be put off any longer, or I'd have to wait until next year (why this one had to be done in person when her Consular Report of Birth Abroad and Passport were issued by mail, I'll never know).  So I was a little nervous about going- as much as I feel that I am safe where I live, the stories you hear & the prospect of having a young baby on her first big trip in tow probably added to my sleepless state the morning before we left.  However, after a philosophical epiphany at 5 am that let me snooze for another couple hours, and a successful bus boarding the bus and taxi ride later, we were snug in our posada at the Casa Gonzalez in Colonia Centro, only two blocks from the Embassy where we'd go and be herded like cattle the next morning @ 7:30 am.

But before then, we were received by the welcome wagon in the form of our friend & her dog, who took us for tacos and assured us that I was probably so overly nervous about how things would go the next day that everything would probably turn out fine.  I hate to jinx myself so I nodded but kept worrying that we'd be missing some document, but deep down hoped she was right.  Luckily, the cool thing that was immediately apparent was that our traveling baby was digging the new sights.  Although I was delighted at the Cupcakery in the Zona Rosa, I was surprised to shell out for the most expensive frozen treats ever (even more than Coldstone!) at some average fro yo spot & Baskin Robbins.  Alas, commercialism in its full glory.  A full night's of sleep for her was another great sign although two 4 am starts in a row left me a bit tired the next day.

Again, I won't tell the entire tale here, but suffice it to say after a long noisy night, 2 bus rides, 1 mellow and 1 harrowing taxi ride later,  and several kilometers of walking around, several deep breaths, sighs, and rolled eyes at the Embassy, a few streaks of good luck and brotherly kindness on behalf of our fellow line standers, and a couple of saintly Capitalinos named Damian and his mom Laura who fed us, watched the baby, and brought Margo food & a folding chair while in the 6-hr wait at the SSPF, the DF mission was accomplished.   Afterwards, we saw a few new neighborhoods & several new sights in the Roma and Condesa (particularly cute was the dog park & organic cafe near Parque Mexico). The nervousness wasn't for naught because there was a close call with the paperwork, but it all worked out.   In fact, things we going so well even with the baby that even Margo, a self-proclaimed DF hater, agreed to go see Chapultepec Park the next morning before we left.  At 36, he'd never seen it before.

And so the next morning after breakfast we shunned the radio taxis and boarded the Metrobus down Reforma to Chapultepec, where we leisurely walked up the hill to the castle after convincing them to let us go through the guards' station with the backpack, that it was an indispensable diaper bag (it was!), but dissed the Castle on principle because of $5 tickets in a public place. A quick loop around the lake and the baby began to signal that she was about ready for the trip to end.  Yet we were ambitious.  After checking out of the hotel and lunching, again in the dang overpriced Zona Rosa, we headed for the Insurgentes Metro Station.  Arriving and with 20 cent tickets in hand (rad!) Margo announced that the baby had pooped.  So we plopped ourselves in pleno estacion where I proceeded to change & nurse her for the long ride ahead.  We got psyched and dove in.  8 stops later, we were all sweaty and happy to board the Primera Plus to Queretaro.  Two crappy movies & lots of baby entertainment & a taxi later, we were back home sweet home.

That night, I confessed to Margo that even after our trip I wasn't sure I deserved Mexican citizenship since I didn't technically stand in that line- we'd hastily scratched out a carta de poder letter to let him do it so I could go back & watch the baby at our friends' house.  "I won't make a good citizen," I said.  "Who is?"  he replied,  I laughed.  Overall, the best things to come out of this trip were a greater willingness on Margo's part to explore the big city although he affirmed he'd never live there, and an amazing reaction from the baby- total adaptability and grace under pressure.  Many firsts for her- big trip, bus ride, shower, sleeping in a strange bed, metro ride, and she couldn't have been better- lots of smiles and only cried once!  I am once again in awe of the true mettle of the true natives. 

Treacherous Territory: When a Mother Questions a Vaccination

It's never a good idea to stand between two warring parties, you're likely to get a grenade dropped on you.  That's precisely what's happening to me in my decision to delay the application of one currently recommended vaccine for infants.  On one side are the alarmists who believe all vaccines are unfounded for a variety of reasons, and on the other are the conformists who claim that anything with documented history and a scientific/medical association stamp on it must not be questioned.  Approach either side with a questioning mind and you're likely to get figuratively flogged.

I should start out by saying I am not opposed to vaccines in general.  I myself have received the full palette as a child and more than the typical ones as an adult, for having traveled to Venezuela and for wanting to practice preventative health care measures. I should also say that I have a good relationship with my daughter's pediatrician, one in which we discuss all options and I submit to most of her recommendations while she supports mine.  Perhaps most importantly, I take good care of myself during lactation and my daughter is a happy, healthy child- from conception to present- normal size, height, weight, not been sick, etc.  So I think I'm doing something right.

With that said, I am not afraid to go against certain mainstream recommendations.  I always do plenty of research, talk to my husband, family/friends, and pediatrician first.  I've mostly ended up accepting vaccines, but I have questioned one single vaccine's timing- .  After some thought, research, and discussion, I decided to delay its application until my baby is older.  I underestimated what a hubbub this would provoke.

The vaccine in question for me is Hepatitis B.  Honestly, while I was still pregnant and saw it on my daughter's "at birth" vaxn recommendations and recoiled, I hadn't even looked into the dangers of the vaccine.  It just didn't make sense to me why it was now being recommended for infants on the day of their birth, if it was a sexually transmitted disease, and when she was already getting so many other injections.  When my pediatrician explained that the concern was for mothers' ability to infect their infants or for babies in populated day-care situations, and I responded that I'd previously had the vaccination series and would not be putting my baby in day-care, she supported my decision to delay its application.

When she was first born, I was concerned that by attending a state/federal vaxn program, I might run into problems trying to get an extended/selective vaxn schedule applied to my daughter.   I talked to my pediatrician about getting them with her and she replied that whereas she supported my concerns, the advantages of going with the govt. vaxn program is that it's free and fresher vaccines.  I also read that some pediatricians advocate an extended vaccination schedule meant to lighten the load on immature immune systems and pacify worried mothers, such as that found at http://www.askdrsears.com/thevaccinebook/

It gave me hope that with luck we'd be able to get our wishes respected in our own process. So we decided to go for it,  The first time we went, at one month of age in October, we were able to selectively receive only the BCG (tuberculosis) vaccine (which, by the way, is not even considered a high incidence country, with only 11/100,000 case incidence- although its virulence is increasing because of individuals who begin treatment regimes but do not follow through with them due to a migratory lifestyle) and weren't forced to accept the Hep. B vaccine.

The second time we went, in November, we also were let off the hook with Hep B, and received only the first round of the pentavalent combo of Tetanus, Diptheria, Whooping Cough, Influenza B, and Polio at the recommended two months of age.  Unfortunately, they didn't have enough stock of the Pneumococcus vaccine which was also recommended at that time. So we had to wait a month and take her in December- causing the cycles to be staggered for the following months.

The January 4 month round of pentavalent went fine, except for the fact that our original clinic where we were assigned for free general medical services under the new Seguro Popular had become quite crowded and chaotic because they eliminated the turns procedure they had once had.  But since the govt. vaxn program advertises that you can receive vaxns at any clinic for free, we tried to go to another closer to our mother-in-law's house.  This was when more confusion began.  First, they wanted to know why we had gone there.  Next, they were concerned that the Hep B series had not been started, but ultimately relented when I reminded them that vaccines were voluntary, not obligatory.  Finally, they told us to go to yet another clinic in February, when she'd get her Pneumococcus booster.  So we did so.

That was yesterday.  Unfortunately we arrived at 9:15 am and were told all the turns for vaxns were finished- to come back Saturday am at 8:00 am.  So we got up at 6:00 am to be able to be in line early.  When we got there at 5 to eight, they were still readying the premises, dusting off desks and placing out vials of deparasitization antibiotics, which they also offered us after giving us a short talk about their benefits, which we politely declined.  There was only one woman in front of us, but it wasn't until 8:35 that they finally sat us down to register us.  There was a complaint that we were at the wrong clinic, and a complaint that we hadn't received the Hep B schedule. I repeated what I always do at the other clinics, but the head nurse was not having it this time.  Pardon me, but vaccines are obligatory, she said. OK, if that's really true, I thought, then why are folks not being fined for not bringing their kids in for vaccines?  In the end, they only applied the single Pneumococcus vaccine after she spoke to the head doctor and I promised I'd bring a letter to absolve them of any responsibility for us having skipped the vaccine.  She withheld our new vaccine card that they'd issued the baby for that new clinic, and told me we couldn't have it until we brought the letter.  Then told us we needed to go to the original clinic for all services.  Why, why, why?

Margo was angry that she withheld the card and sent us back to the original clinic.  I suspected it had to do with them not wanting to deal with my special requests.  Every clinic feels so uncomfortable (except, ironically, the original one downtown that first saw us but now has the unreasonably long lines) with my attitude.  I get treated condescendingly although I am very polite and firm.  I resist my sarcastic and arrogant urges, and remember this is just about my basic rights.  I am simply practicing my right as a mother (also educated as a biologist) to inform myself and choose intuitive, practical preventative care, like other mothers who question blanket vaccination like in http://mothering.com/jennifermargulis/tag/monkey-study.

However, on the way home, my usual rock of support, my husband, showed signs of wearing down under the constant pressures to conform to the government system.  After a brief shared bout of complaining where we agreed that the clinics aren't really as concerned with protecting babies as they are with covering their backs, his tactic suddenly turned.  Well, the real problem is that you don't want them to give her that vaccine, he said, essentially blaming me for this issue.  I got upset but then remembered a discussion about hospital procedures we had with our midwife after the birth itself.  Basically, because of a perceived hierarchy among the practitioners in the room (that diverged from how I'd hired them to act), and the fact that my husband and doula had not stood up for my requests about a position I wanted to be in, I had ended up being my strongest advocate while I was busy pushing out my baby, and that had upset me.  That's when they both confessed that here folks don't really feel comfortable standing up to authority. 

At first I reacted badly to his comment about my issues with this vaccine, but instead I decided to back myself up.  So I went online and found out that there is more to the issue than just my instincts that it's just a little too early to get the Hep B series applied.  Others share my concern that the implied necessity of the vaccine at birth is overblown, such as those shared at http://articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/archive/2002/01/23/hepatitis-vaccine-part-three.aspx.   Even so, there are still those who feel, quite vitriolically, that any attempt to question mainstream recommendations is unscientific (isn't that paradoxical?). Even though the issue will probably continue to resurface in various guises throughout my daughter's childhood, this has given me a little more resolve to try and not fall into either category- neither exceedingly alarmist nor conformist.   At least my headache has subsided somewhat for the time being.

From a tizzy to tranquila in 30 minutes flat

This is going to be a tricky title to explain, but here goes:

When I first started writing this post, I was coming off a highly charged state, having, after several phone calls and 2 visits to the bank, unsuccessfully attempted to pre-pay for my husband's Mexican passport application for which we have our appointment tomorrow morning.  I was in a rage, but trying not to expose my husband or daughter to my anger, because they certainly were not responsible for the situation.  So I penned about 2 pages in my journal replete with expletives, came upstairs and tried to sort some things out, worked off my heated emotions to Rage Against the Machine, readied my Caroline Myss' Spiritual Power Spiritual Practice to help me bliss out afterwards, and then began this post:

Well, I should have expected I'd be writing about this by now.  Every year I have to renew my Mexican FM2 visa in September, the month we first arrived, and every time is always a new challenge, but 2011 is the YEAR that will top them ALL.  This year, I have decided I'll go straight for the citizenship papers- yep, skip the next 3 years of nearly $300 and 3 days of waiting in lines for each visa, and go for the nearly $200, one-time, federal citizenship application.  It requires some new hoops to jump through, like a trip down to Mexico City to get my proof of a crime-free life at the Procuraduria Federal.  An interview in Spanish, and a history exam.  But if THAT wasn't enough, I am attempting several other separate applications for me and my family, all in one year. Yes, I am a glutton for punishment:

1. Mexican birth certificate for the baby (Check, last October)
2. Consular Report of Birth Abroad for the baby (Check, last December)
3. U.S. Passport for the baby (Also check)
4. Social Security Number application for the baby (not sure how yet, but gotta happen before April 15, Tax Day!)
5. Mexican passport for the baby (comes up sometime in March)
6. Mexican passport for the husband (tomorrow)
7. Canadian visa for the husband (sometime end of March)

I have somehow blithely decided to do all this while undertaking a new writing project and mothering a 5 month old baby.  Luckily I only think things through partially before I decide to do them.  For the last several weeks I have been diligently gathering documents in triplicate in preparation for the applications.  Wow, everything seems to be going so smoothly, I am really am old hat at this.  I deserve a Masters in bureacratic application submission!  Until today.  It happens as it often does, what has been a mostly routine process collides with that inevitable.
                            *                      *                          *
I was about to light into the frustrating events of the day.  But then I was interrupted by my husband coming in with the baby, who just couldn't wait any longer- she wanted food and NOW.  So I wrapped up, went in the bedroom, soothed her cries, and sat ourselves down in the rocker to nurse her to sleep.  First she worked off her hunger.  And I calmed down.  Then as she melted into a heap of sleep in my lap, I realized my tizzy was almost gone.  My mind was still on auto-pilot, trying to count up how many visits to the bank, notary, civil registry, phone calls, account queries, payments, and copies that'd have to be made, but they seemed more remote, vague, fuzzy.  If was grasping, it was quickly let go.  Then I realized she had fallen asleep at my breast.  Looking at her, I felt calm and satisfied. Like her.  So I slowly got up- but since I hadn't closed the curtains as I usually do when we go in to settle down, the light of the moon shined in on her face. Her eyes flashed open wide, but then fluttered back down. Laying her down in her crib, she started- her thumb went to her mouth, and I wrapped her to see if we could start practicing her self-soothing.

I came back to the computer.  What lines had formed in my head that just needed to get written down?  I don't recall, because the whimpers and wails were issuing from her room for more than 5 minutes.  We don't (and may never) practice cry-it-out, since there's never been a time when she hasn't needed one of us for a reason, and so I went in to pick up where I'd left off. This time, I did it right- closed the curtains, turned on the night-light, wrapped in warmly in her blankie, and sure enough, within 5 minutes she had drifted off again, this time grinning in her sleep.  I knew we were through this time.

This is how motherhood is softening me.   Not like a bonfire turns marshmallows to goo, but how repeated tumbling polishes a stone.  A once rough surface is still solid inside, but now smooth to the touch.  Kind of like how the topic of this post started as a self-indulgent venting session about how much foreign life can sometimes frustrate me, and ended up with me marveling at the feminine force to be reckoned with that is mothering.  Forget meditation, alcohol, drugs (I haven't tried tranquilizers), exercise, I have never found anything faster or more satisfying to take "the edge" off than quality time with my baby, especially nursing.  Oxytocin, that bonding hormone, is liquid love, connection, and security. 

I can't tell if it's just the nurturing chemicals coursing through my body that mellow me out and turn me down, or if it has something to do with the baby herself, from this land, already starting to act on me and bring my sometimes-American all-too-often impatient sensibilities a notch down, and with greater perspective.  But I can't say that I mind finding out.

Patience (el gran reto) in Mexico

A good friend of ours was supposed to get into town this evening, flying in to the Queretaro airport from Ciudad Juarez. There for the last four days, he's been covering stories similar to ours- American/Mexican couples who've, one way or another, been separated or forced into living situations other than the "ideal" as a result of one of the partners having an undocumented U.S. immigration status.  I was looking forward to his arrival.   When my husband told me he'd called and said the flight had been cancelled, I felt bad for him, but I was on a massage table at my friend's house -we barter professional services- and so I had to put the annoying thoughts away. Back home, instead of preparing to go out and pick him up, I went about my business as normal, put the baby to bed, and called another friend in the States to chat.  I sent him an email recommending patience in the next 18 hours, when the next flight arrives.  Four years ago, I might not have had the same reaction.  I now realize the change I swore would never happen has indeed occurred.  Like it or not, I am "becoming Mexican."

A week or so after Margo & I first arrived here in 2006, I had to go to the Instituto Nacional de Migracion to register my presence in my new residence, namely, Queretaro.  You know how the old U.S. passports had the spot where you fill in your mailing address in case it gets lost, and how you have to sign the document for it to be valid?  Well, I figured that was the same for the Mexican visa booklet that I'd been issued back in San Jose at the Mexican consulate, a place I'd had to go to several times to complete my paperwork, no easy task in itself.  So in the truck on the way to the office, I found the spot where it said local residence and three blank lines, and diligently filled in my information.  After waiting what felt like a couple hours for my turn in line, we stood at the counter, handing over my documents.  The agent scanned my things briefly, when making a face, she asked me if I had written inside the document.  "Si," I replied half proudly, half nervously, wondering why she was asking me.  "Sabes que eso es un delito?" she asked me.  Do you know that's a felony?  My heart sank. 

To make a long story short, I had to re-apply for my visa, from Mexico, which was a lot harder than the application I'd done in the U.S., which is saying a lot.  I couldn't understand why, I was overwhelmed with frustration, and upon leaving the office, I walked across Avenida Universidad and sat on the grass overlooking the river below, and contemplated throwing myself in.  I was truly beside myself.  I think I actually cried.  Margo couldn't understand at all why I was so upset and therefore was not that great at consoling me.  In fact I think he said various things along the lines of, what were you thinking to write in that book?  Which of course only made me feel worse.

That event, and countless other tangles with Mexican bureacracy over the next year or two only served to make me more and more despondent.  It seemed no matter how airtight my applications were, no matter how punctual we were to appointments, nothing could speed up any process, all paperwork indicated a complicated spiral of visits to copy shops, a relative's house for several witnesses' signatures, or a failed attempt in which we were told to go to the office across town, or that offices didn't open until next Monday, or that we ought to call back in four weeks.   It seemed to require a full-time job just to perform the most basic tasks like paying taxes or renewing a license .  Every time we went, I'd complain a red streak.  Margo would get cross, and I'd get more insistent.  He started suggesting I not join him on trips to government agencies.  If you're wondering why we spent so much time on these things, it's because all transactions need to be made in person- over the phone or online is just barely starting to make it on the scene here.  I brought the issue up with my sister-in-law.  After telling her how I felt and wondering aloud why no one complained to officials about their terribly inefficient systems, I naively asked her why none of them ever got fed up.  She earnestly replied that they'd never known anything different, and it wasn't likely to change anything by complaining.  This was impossible for me to understand.

Until now.

For a long time, I thought I had the lock on bitching about things that drive me mad about Mexico.  My poor husband is reminded every year when I reapply for my visa, just how important that "apoyo moral" moral support letter they ask for from the spouse, really is.  But then, as if imperceptibly, my perspective seemed to change.  I began to defend Mexico from outside criticisms to a whole host of people- friends, family, unknowns on blog commentaries, etc.

When a friend came to visit for an extended period this past summer, I unleashed some pent-up "quejas" (complaints), but she met them stride for stride.  At one point, "me rebaso" she beat me to the punch- and I began hearing her very justified commentaries about various things- the delayed status of road construction projects, the poor signage on highways, the way people wait (or don't) in lines, and so on, but I heard them with different ears.  All of a sudden, although in theory I agreed with her, I realized how my earlier comments must sound to Margo.  All right already, OK, you've got a point, but what the hell can I do about it???

It was at that point that I noticed how much less I take issue with ostensibly annoying aspects of life in Mexico than I used to.  Maybe it's like the fraternity hazing mentality, you bond with those with whom you suffer.  Soon after that near-suicidal incident by the river, my head swirling with self-pity as to why had I moved my life thousands of miles south into a land so foreign it might as well have been halfway across the world, I swore to myself, and to anyone standing in earshot, that I'd never accept the pace of Mexican life, how slow things go, or substandard service.   But four years later, I look back and I see that "this too shall pass."  Of course, I still prefer that I be attended to more rapidly, that lines be shorter, that the title to our house could be delivered in less than 5 years, but I now see less reason to get so uptight about the failings of customer service.  It won't do anything to accelerate what I'm waiting for, and why guarantee my husband another headache?

I just take a deep breath, head for the "quejas y sugerencias" comment box, and if there ain't one, crack a joke and save my energy.  I'll be needing it for the next visit downtown.