El Mangal

In La Colonia nothing seems to change.  The generations slowly shift, but today’s 18-year-olds cook over wood fires and have too many babies, just like their great-grandmothers did.  There’s no cell phone signal—there’s one phone in town, in the centro; if you get a call, they announce it over the loudspeaker and you run.  Everything revolves around corn.  Tortilla is a verb: tortillar.

The mango grove has been there as long as my mother-in-law, the indomitable Doña Charo, can remember, on a remote piece of land that belongs to nobody.  She came here with her brothers and sisters when there was nothing to eat at home.  The huge mango trees rustle and whisper in the breeze just as they must have forty years ago, when Doña Charo was Chayito, a girl with long golden ringlets and an empty belly.  

One thing has changed, on this trip: the road between the town of Cintalapa and La Colonia, which had always been dirt, is paved: a long straight avenue planted up the dividing strip with magueys.  The avenue is named for a rich local man.  It’s a name Doña Charo recognizes: when she was fourteen, and this man was in his thirties, he wanted to marry her.  

She was beautiful, and she had nothing: no money, no father, a step-father who drank and hit, a steady stream of younger brothers and sisters to take care of. 

This wealthy man told fourteen-year-old Chayito that he would set her up like a queen, that she would never want for anything.  She said no.  He spoke to her mother, offered her money.  I imagine Doña Catalina—pregnant, probably, patting out tortillas in the smoky adobe kitchen—saying, “M’ija, marry him, go on.”  Thinking that it sounded like a damn good offer.   Chayito said no, and no again.  “Nunca me voy a casar con un hombre de por acá,” she said.  I’ll never marry a man from here.     

When she had a chance, she left.  She’s not a queen, not even close.  She’s wanted for things, since she left La Colonia.  But her life is her own.

The mango trees reach and moan and whisper.  “I never imagined I would come to this place with my son and my grandson,” Doña Charo says, peeling a green mango.  She’s not blonde anymore, but she’s still beautiful.  The most beautiful. 

“I have such nice memories of these trees,” she says, “but I don’t have a taste for mangoes anymore.”      

The Color of Chocolate

It's ironic but true that in Mexico, where the vast majority of people are not this color, this color is still known as "color carne": flesh color. 

Last week in Isaias' class, they were coloring paper dolls of their families.  The teacher asked what color skin is, and the children chorused: "COLOR CARNE."

But Isaias said, "NO.  Mi papito es de color
café.  Mi papito es el color de chocolate."  My daddy is brown.  My daddy is the color of chocolate.

His classmates laughed.  Many of them are, themselves, brown.  All of them have family members who are brown.  And they laughed. 

Isaias insisted.  He would not color his papito the wrong color.  His papito is the color of chocolate.  Finally his teacher said that he was right, and told the children not to laugh.  And he colored his papito brown. 

He didn't stay inside the lines.  But I think he did a beautiful job. 

 

Things I as a Non-Mexican Will Never Understand: #43

We have had this conversation at least two dozen times. 

Ibis: I'm hungry.  I'M SO HUNGRY.  I haven't eaten ALL DAY.  I'm going to die if I'm not eating something within five minutes because I'M SO INCREDIBLY HUNGRY OH MY GOD.  What food is there?

Me: There's chicken/rice and beans/spaghetti/eggs/(insert some other perfectly adequate food product here). 

Ibis: Are there any tortillas? 

Me: No. 

Ibis: I'm not really that hungry. 

Here, now.

Driving home. 

It’s early evening, and the sunlight sifts between the hills in golden sheets.

In a field of long grass, some horses are grazing: one spotted, one gray, one white. 

And on the white horse’s back, a white egret is perched.  The curve of its neck a question with no answer but this valley, sliced by light. 

Why, Mama?

“What is it, Mamá?”

“It’s sheep poop, my love.”

“Why, Mamá?  Why do we want sheep poop?”

“Because we’re going to make compost with it.”

“Why, Mamá?”

“Because the plants like it, my bird.”

“Why, Mamá?”

“Because it has good things that they need to grow.”

“Why, Mamá?”

“Well…because everything is a circle.  The sheep eat the plants, and then their poop helps new plants grow, and then they eat the new plants, and poop again.  And some of the plants go into the compost pile, and they turn into compost too, and help new plants grow.   Like that.” 

“Why, Mamá?”

“Because the worms and other little bugs eat the sheep poop and the dead plants, and turn it into compost, and the compost is like food for the plants. See?  Here’s a worm, look!”

“Qué bonito!  Pink!”

“You’re right, es bonito.  Do you want me to put it on your hand?”

“Yes.”

“Oooooooooooooooh!”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

***

Late afternoon, walking through the cemetery with Isa’s hand in mine.

 It’s been a long day of sitting still and being quiet for a three-year-old, and we’re not immediate family anyway; though I'm truly sorry, I honestly can’t even remember having met the guy.   Ibis can represent the Alonso Ponikvars for a while. 

November second is only a few days away, and many of the graves are decorated, already, with marigolds and the magenta flowers called “cock’s comb”. 

 

I want to stop and look, read the old-fashioned names—Delfina, Tomasina, Natalio, Heriberto—see who’s been remembered and how.   But Isaias pulls me along, back towards the entrance, towards the promise of chicharrines and gelatinas and all kinds of junk food for sale.  On one grave, someone has placed an opened bottle of Coca-Cola.  You have to open it, see, so the spirits can smell it, when they come. 

I buy my son a bag of chicharrines.  As usual, he requests salsa, and then requires me to eat everything that it touches.  We sit on a bench next to a large, seemingly random wood carving of an owl grasping an amorphous rodent in its talons. 

“Why, Mamá?  Why does she want to eat her?” 

“Because owls are carnivores, like T-Rexes and tigers, and they need meat when they’re hungry, and meat comes from other animals.”  

“And from other dinosaurs, right, Mamá?” 

“Right, my love.  Dinosaurs, too.” 

“Why, Mamá?  Why do carnivores need meat?” 

“Because that’s how their bodies are made.  They need meat to be strong and grow.  You’re an omnivore, so you can eat meat or fruit or milk or chicharrines , but carnivores need to eat meat, or they won’t be strong.”

“But why, Mamá?  Why does she want to eat her?”  (Why do we have to die?) 

“Because she’s hungry, my bird, and she needs to eat meat.” (Because it’s all a circle, because that’s the deal, that’s all.)

Quiet.  Crunching on chicharrines.   The hole is being filled.   The father and the son of the man I don’t remember meeting cling to each other, crying.  Mounded marigolds seem to glow with their own light, guiding the spirits back to this world for a day.

“I love you much, Isaias.” 

“I love you much, Mamá.”       

Three Good Guys

At the end of this Seemingly Endless Day of Nonstop Bullshit, I would like to acknowledge three random strangers whose miniscule acts of kindness somewhat mitigated my desire to bash my head against a wall until I lost consciousness:

The young man at the Oxxo minimart who observed my crestfallen expression when I realized that the coffee machine was being serviced, said, “Just for you, ma’am” and hooked it back up, so I could get a hit of liquid caffeine and sugar. 

The man who took my picture for my immigration document, who laughed heartily at my joke, and didn’t even raise his eyebrows when he saw my terrible, terrible photo. *

The gas station attendant who filled up my flat tire and called me “my little queen,” even though I didn't have any change with which to tip him. 

Señores: gracias. 

 

*Terrible, but fortunately not in accordance with the trend of increasing terribleness. The first year in Mexico, I looked ugly, but dignified, in my FM2 photo.  The second year I looked like a man.  Last year I looked like a sad zombie.  This year, I figured I would end up looking like...what would be worse than zombie?  Lindsay Lohan after a binge, maybe.  Instead, I'm going to look tired and pissed, which is at least accurate. 

Two things I have in common with Miley Cyrus, or, I want to be a hunter-gatherer when I grow up

Ibis and Isaias left me to my own introverted devices last weekend while they went to visit Abuelita, and I divided my time neatly between the two halves of my split personality. 

On Saturday I put on skinny jeans and went into town.  I had a fancy coffee and graded homework assignments.  I thought about getting a manicure but didn’t.  I wandered around the shops and tried on some clothes, bought a pair of slacks for work, and then had pozole and beer and gossip with some relatives, went home.  I was perfectly happy with my day.   

On Sunday I woke up early and didn’t even change out of my funky cut-off sweatpants and stained tank top.   I spread compost around the garden, cleaned out the chicken yard, built a new compost pile, transplanted chile seedlings and a little tree, cut some grass, dead-headed the dahlias and the zinnias.  I collected the eggs and cooked “eggs in purgatory” with fresh oregano and thyme and parsley from the garden, and made mint-lime-lemongrass water with fresh everything from the garden.  I was perfectly happy with my day. 

I was perfectly happy with my day, and by the end of it, my nails were dirty and broken and my knuckles were scratched and something had bitten or stung my left index finger, leaving an impressive welt, and I thought, what if I had gotten a manicure yesterday?  That would have been stupid.  And I wondered a little what the hell is wrong with me, that I can contemplate having my nails done one day, and pick up chicken crap with my bare hands the next.      

So, okay, I contain multitudes.  We all do.  If I had had any delusions that I’m alone in this,   they would have been dispelled when I turned on the TV Sunday evening and your friend and mine Hannah Montana popped up, lip-syncing her heart out in adorable lady-executive garb, only to run backstage and return in pigtails, a gingham blouse, denim skirt, and cowgirl boots.  “You can change your hair, you can change your clothes,” she mouthed, “You can change your mind, that’s just the way it goes.”  Tell it, Miley. 

It's true, you can change your hair and your clothes, but you can only change your mind about the important stuff so many times before it becomes tiresome and impractical.  There are some decisions to be made in the coming months, big ones, and I don’t know which part of me should make them: the sipper of lattes or the builder of compost piles.  They want such different things. They have such different concepts of security.  One of them feels safe and satisfied when she sees that her paycheck will cover the month’s expenses; the other, when she can make her entire meal from the garden. 

I’ve been tempted to break it down into a question of head-vs.-heart, or to condemn the latte-sipper as superficial, but I realized this evening that that’s not quite it. 

After supper we were out in the yard. I was admiring a pale green spider sitting inside a magenta hollyhock flower.  Ibis was burning the weeds and grass that can’t go into the compost.  Isaias was picking sunflower seeds out of the flowers to nibble.   I felt a satisfaction so deep it startled me, and I understood it was because that’s what we’re made for.  Paying close attention to the natural world, burning stuff, and foraging for things to eat.  Never mind that we would starve to death trying to hunt and gather for a living on our tiny scrap of land.  It’s not head-vs.-heart: it’s the hunter-gatherer I’m genetically programmed to be arguing with the resident of the twenty-first century I am.   

I don’t know how much that realization will help me decide who gets to call the shots, but it always feels better to have things figured out.   

(Oh, the other thing I have in common with Miley Cyrus?  I've had to delete the photographic evidence because this is a family blog, but let's just say it involves cakes in the form of a portion of the male anatomy.  Mine, I would hasten to add, was bestowed upon me by my mother-in-law's prayer group; I'm pretty sure Miley's was her own idea.)