It's my second week of class and all the students disappear except for me and Antonio. The good news is that I now have private grammar lessons, the bad news is that I'm put in conversation class with Antonio. My nemesis. The corrector. The kid who has called me fat and accused me of not working hard enough. Great.
I argue that I shouldn't be in class with Antonio because he's too advanced for me, but the teacher Juan insists that conversation class is for all levels.
I give it my best shot and at first, it seems like all is well.
We play a game in which Antonio and take turns describing movies while the other person guesses the title. I stump Antonio with Spiderman and he describes this Korean movie about a giant fish monster that captures a girl and pulls her down to his underwater lair. I'm really getting into it. I make a buzzer sound and try to guess the title even before Antonio puts the multiple choice options on the board: "Giant fish!"
We soon determine that Antonio's monster is not really a giant fish but a giant salamander. Antonio is being kind of quiet and boring about it, so I push him with all kinds of questions. "Is the girl a little girl or a teenager?" I ask. "Does the giant salamander have hands?" I ask. "Is he a salamander with a heart of gold, or is he just evil?"
I'm really having fun. I'm just wishing that Antonio would talk more, and play a little. This is why I am astonished when Juan stops talking and gives me a serious, steady stare. "Molly, come on, you need to talk more," he says.
What? If anyone needs to talk more, it's Antonio. It doesn't help that Juan and I have had that initial "Don't tell anyone you're from Arizona" conversation. Is that what all this is really about? Is he just being a dick to me because I'm from Arizona? I'm already speaking three times as much as Antonio and I'm supposed to speak even more. What does he want? For me to do ALL the talking?
"You really need to talk more," he says again.
I feel trapped in an unfair judgment. I feel unseen. Hasn't he seen all this talking I've been doing? Rage flows through my body as I glare at Juan. I have a certain violent urge that I fight to control. Despite all my cultural confusion, even I know it's not kosher to choke your Spanish instructor.
I stare at my notebook and try to cool down.
Juan says, "Okay, let's switch the topic to stereotypes. What are the stereotypes about Mexico and Mexicans?"
Oh great. The guy who thinks I am an Arizona bigot is asking me to identify Mexican stereotypes. Never mind that true Arizona bigots pass laws to make sure everyone around them speaks English so that they never have to take a Spanish class in their lives.
I feel trapped. If I put forth some negative stereotype it's going to sound like I believe it. Even positive stereotypes sound ridiculous. What would I say? That Mexican families have more fun? What the hell am I going to say?
"That's a dangerous question," I say.
"No, it's not," Juan says. "Come on, we're all friends here."
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Chapulines
I figure the best way to bounce back from sickness is to eat the grasshoppers. Silvia's sister Cherie and her husband take me out to dinner to cheer me up post-sickness, and I layer the little red-chili covered bits into a tortilla with a little guacamole. They taste like fake bacon bits, but a little woodier. That's probably the legs.
Later a hotel owner will defend the eating of the grasshoppers as environmentalism. Instead of spraying poisons on their corn, they use nets to catch the grasshoppers and just eat the pests.
Later Rebeca and I will tell Silvia about the time I ate a cricket on a cracker at the insect museum in New Orleans as part of an exhibit on alternate food sources. Silvia will be completely offended by the idea that we consider eating a cricket and eating a grasshopper to be similar. "Crickets are black," she'll say. "Grasshoppers are green." She'll look at us like we are crazy.
Later a hotel owner will defend the eating of the grasshoppers as environmentalism. Instead of spraying poisons on their corn, they use nets to catch the grasshoppers and just eat the pests.
Later Rebeca and I will tell Silvia about the time I ate a cricket on a cracker at the insect museum in New Orleans as part of an exhibit on alternate food sources. Silvia will be completely offended by the idea that we consider eating a cricket and eating a grasshopper to be similar. "Crickets are black," she'll say. "Grasshoppers are green." She'll look at us like we are crazy.
El Acuerdo
Rodrigo and Antonio are looking at me like I'm crazy, or like I'm an idiot, or both.
"But you said 'yes.' You said you wanted to go to the movies with us," Rodrigo says.
"Oh no," I say. "You didn't buy me a ticket, did you?"
I thought back to the previous conversations about Malefica, the movie with Angelina Jolie. What question did I think I said "yes" to when I was accidentally saying "yes" to an invitation?
That I knew the movie they were describing? That I liked movies in general? That I think Angelina Jolie is hot?
It was my understanding that Rodrigo was going to the movies with a female friend and some cousins. I wasn't even sure whether Antonio was invited but it would have been awkward and none-of-my-business to clarify that matter. I figured the twenty-somethings were getting together while I had been invited to dinner with the fifty-somethings and had accepted.
"You didn't understand what you were saying 'yes' to?" Antonio asks me.
"No," I say. "I mean, yes."
"But you said 'yes.' You said you wanted to go to the movies with us," Rodrigo says.
"Oh no," I say. "You didn't buy me a ticket, did you?"
I thought back to the previous conversations about Malefica, the movie with Angelina Jolie. What question did I think I said "yes" to when I was accidentally saying "yes" to an invitation?
That I knew the movie they were describing? That I liked movies in general? That I think Angelina Jolie is hot?
It was my understanding that Rodrigo was going to the movies with a female friend and some cousins. I wasn't even sure whether Antonio was invited but it would have been awkward and none-of-my-business to clarify that matter. I figured the twenty-somethings were getting together while I had been invited to dinner with the fifty-somethings and had accepted.
"You didn't understand what you were saying 'yes' to?" Antonio asks me.
"No," I say. "I mean, yes."
Las Correcciones
When I was ten, I got my hands on some standardized tests that identified me as smart and I immediately started acting like an asshole. I corrected my mom's pronunciation of certain words, corrected my dad's fuzzy memory of past events, corrected my brothers' spelling. I caught every verbal slip and jumped in with my fix. I was so smart.
And while my adult interactions with the products of suburban child-rearing indicate that this type of behavior is acceptable or perhaps even encouraged among the higher- income set, in my family it was considered very rude, bordering on monstrous. My farm-boy dad and registered-nurse mom tolerated the corrections for a day or so, and then down came the hammer.
One day I corrected one of my mom's casual mistakes and she just glared at me. Though I was past the age for spanking, I had the distinct feeling that my mom wanted to slap me across the face.
"It is rude to correct other people, and you will not do it."
"Never?"
"Never."
In that moment, I stopped correcting people. Even into my adult life, I have followed the rule religiously, ridiculously. I'm always being asked by friends, "Why didn't you tell me to turn left and not right?" "Why didn't you say something?" "Why didn't you stop me?"
I just shrug.
So, for me, one of the hardest parts of learning Spanish in Mexico is the constant correction.
If I manage to get the past-tense verb out correctly, I inevitably use the "you" form when I mean "I," and someone corrects me three-words into my thought. If I get the past-tense verb and the conjugation right, then I use the wrong "to be" verb, ser instead of estar, and again, I get stopped before I say what I want to say. I use "quince" when I mean "cinquenta." Silvia is pretty good about letting me finish a sentence, but Antonio likes to stop me one word at a time.
I feel like my listeners are judging me as stupid or slow. I feel like they are losing their patience with me or getting bored with me. I start wondering if I'm just not good at this language-learning thing. It's painful. I'm tempted to just clam up.
I realize at some point that my mistakes in Spanish match my bad communication habits in English. Not bothering to pronounce a word correctly if I think it's too long. The old habit of not naming people or things specifically enough because it wasn't cool to do so in my central Phoenix neighborhood. The constant numerical mixups that are becoming more frequent as I age.
I know that what I need to do is talk more. I know I need to stop caring what my listeners think of me, to stop making up my little stories about their judgment. But I can't do it.
I know what I need to do in order to learn is to just jump in, to shoot into the pinball machine and bounce off these bumpers of mistakes and just keep rolling. I need to just absorb these corrections and use them, but instead each one feels like a painful impact that stops me in my tracks.
And while my adult interactions with the products of suburban child-rearing indicate that this type of behavior is acceptable or perhaps even encouraged among the higher- income set, in my family it was considered very rude, bordering on monstrous. My farm-boy dad and registered-nurse mom tolerated the corrections for a day or so, and then down came the hammer.
One day I corrected one of my mom's casual mistakes and she just glared at me. Though I was past the age for spanking, I had the distinct feeling that my mom wanted to slap me across the face.
"It is rude to correct other people, and you will not do it."
"Never?"
"Never."
In that moment, I stopped correcting people. Even into my adult life, I have followed the rule religiously, ridiculously. I'm always being asked by friends, "Why didn't you tell me to turn left and not right?" "Why didn't you say something?" "Why didn't you stop me?"
I just shrug.
So, for me, one of the hardest parts of learning Spanish in Mexico is the constant correction.
If I manage to get the past-tense verb out correctly, I inevitably use the "you" form when I mean "I," and someone corrects me three-words into my thought. If I get the past-tense verb and the conjugation right, then I use the wrong "to be" verb, ser instead of estar, and again, I get stopped before I say what I want to say. I use "quince" when I mean "cinquenta." Silvia is pretty good about letting me finish a sentence, but Antonio likes to stop me one word at a time.
I feel like my listeners are judging me as stupid or slow. I feel like they are losing their patience with me or getting bored with me. I start wondering if I'm just not good at this language-learning thing. It's painful. I'm tempted to just clam up.
I realize at some point that my mistakes in Spanish match my bad communication habits in English. Not bothering to pronounce a word correctly if I think it's too long. The old habit of not naming people or things specifically enough because it wasn't cool to do so in my central Phoenix neighborhood. The constant numerical mixups that are becoming more frequent as I age.
I know that what I need to do is talk more. I know I need to stop caring what my listeners think of me, to stop making up my little stories about their judgment. But I can't do it.
I know what I need to do in order to learn is to just jump in, to shoot into the pinball machine and bounce off these bumpers of mistakes and just keep rolling. I need to just absorb these corrections and use them, but instead each one feels like a painful impact that stops me in my tracks.
Picky Eater
I've never been a picky eater. If you handed me a plate, I'd eat whatever was on it. Except mussels which I'm allergic to, or pickled pig's feet. (I'd have to guess that if I were in one of my exuberant moods and someone I really liked handed me unpickled pig's feet, I probably would've eaten them).
Anyway, in my normal life, I've always been an open eater and a big slob, the total opposite of OCD.
Getting sick changes all this for me.
I buy two bottles of hand sanitizer, one to carry around, one for my bathroom at home.
I'm terrified of lettuce, tomatoes, ice, and even ice cream.
Back home I was the kind of person who had to steel my nerves to send back a dish at a restaurant.
Not anymore.
Cook's feelings be damned, I am now guarding my stomach with a paranoia so irrational that it borders on....right-wing patriotism.
I'm a gut-nut.
A one-woman-intestinal-militia.
If someone tries to hand me anything green or salad-like, this Sergeant Slaughter voice in my brain grumbles, "Nothing's getting in here but cookies, motherfucker."
Finally, I have a great excuse to eat nothing but processed, pre-packaged junk food.
Anyway, in my normal life, I've always been an open eater and a big slob, the total opposite of OCD.
Getting sick changes all this for me.
I buy two bottles of hand sanitizer, one to carry around, one for my bathroom at home.
I'm terrified of lettuce, tomatoes, ice, and even ice cream.
Back home I was the kind of person who had to steel my nerves to send back a dish at a restaurant.
Not anymore.
Cook's feelings be damned, I am now guarding my stomach with a paranoia so irrational that it borders on....right-wing patriotism.
I'm a gut-nut.
A one-woman-intestinal-militia.
If someone tries to hand me anything green or salad-like, this Sergeant Slaughter voice in my brain grumbles, "Nothing's getting in here but cookies, motherfucker."
Finally, I have a great excuse to eat nothing but processed, pre-packaged junk food.
Despues
I take the cipro and some other stuff the doctor prescribed, miss two days of class, and sleep for two more after that. By Saturday, I've worked my way up to bananas and saltines. I eat very slowly now, and as I do, I realize that mealtimes with my host family last a lot longer than I had previously thought. Before I was sick I was always the first to leave the table, and I figured that everyone else left about five minutes after me. Now as I linger and chew slowly and drink lots of water, I realize that Silvia and Antonio have been spending twenty more minutes talking and eating. It's this great chance to relax, hang out, practice my Spanish.
I've given up my Estado-Unidos busyness so I can be human again.
I've given up my Estado-Unidos busyness so I can be human again.
Friday, July 25, 2014
Miercoles Negro, Parte Dos
I arrive late to class and my stomach feels a little weird, and I think it's just nervousness over the ATM card. The teacher Karin and the classmates Karen and Miles give me an enthusiastic greeting which makes me feel like less of a fool for losing the card, and after class I have a Coke for lunch and we go on this field trip where we watch a potter make a black-clay pot from scratch. San Bartolo Coyotepec. Pretty amazing.
I have bananas and saltines at comida, just in case, and sure enough, about an hour later, the trouble starts. Silvia tells me that my face looks gray and offers to take me to the doctor. I refuse, but then go into the bathroom and have a bout of diarrhea with blood in it. Feeling dizzy and weak, I lie down on the bathroom floor. The tile is cold against my back, so, at first, I think the chills are just from that. But even after I get up, the chills continue, until I'm shaking.
Silvia catches me in the courtyard and tells me the earlier we go to the doctor the better, because the lines will be shorter. I agree and then retreat into the bathroom for the "both ends" experience, adding puking into a garbage can to my list of new and weird talents.
Soon Silvia and I are sitting in the small doctor's office adjacent to a pharmacy. I've got a plastic bag at the ready and I'm trying to tell Silvia about the clay workshop my class visited but I keep getting the name wrong. "Cual?" she says. "Que?" "No entiendo." We're killing time with constant miscommunication.
A wave of nausea and cramps hits me. "?Hay un ban~o?" I ask.
The pharmacy assistant opens a door to...a set of thirty gray, concrete stairs. I start my way up at a steady pace, hoping I'll be quick enough to get there and slow enough to avoid jarring my intestines too much. My sandals slap against the concrete. Slap. Slap. With each footfall, I say a little prayer to Saint-I-Don't-Want-To-Shit-My-Pants.
Please.
Please.
I open the door to a grimy, gray bathroom with no soap or toilet paper, but since it has a toilet not already filled with anything disgusting, I'm delighted to be there.
I do my thing, and I'm just about finished, when I hear Silvia calling to me that the doctor is ready to see me. I can't lose my place in line. Damn it. Down the stairs. Down the stairs. Same little prayers.
The doctor tests my two days of Spanish classes by asking me my date of birth and known allergies. I answer him, puke into the plastic bag, answer, puke. He palpates my belly, announces the usual case of "turista." He says, "I'm going to give you an injection now."
He's speaking Spanish, but I understand him instantly. I look down at the floor which is coated in a gray film. The baseboards are lined with quarter-inch ant-ridges of dirt and other particles.
I try to say, "I'm not going to let you give me an injection because your floor is dirty," but it comes out as, "No shot. Dirty floor."
I'm being rude to his face, but I don't care.
"Now, why are you afraid of the injection?" he asks.
I use non-verbal communication now. I hold up one finger. I open up the plastic bag with both hands. My body shakes. I puke.
I have bananas and saltines at comida, just in case, and sure enough, about an hour later, the trouble starts. Silvia tells me that my face looks gray and offers to take me to the doctor. I refuse, but then go into the bathroom and have a bout of diarrhea with blood in it. Feeling dizzy and weak, I lie down on the bathroom floor. The tile is cold against my back, so, at first, I think the chills are just from that. But even after I get up, the chills continue, until I'm shaking.
Silvia catches me in the courtyard and tells me the earlier we go to the doctor the better, because the lines will be shorter. I agree and then retreat into the bathroom for the "both ends" experience, adding puking into a garbage can to my list of new and weird talents.
Soon Silvia and I are sitting in the small doctor's office adjacent to a pharmacy. I've got a plastic bag at the ready and I'm trying to tell Silvia about the clay workshop my class visited but I keep getting the name wrong. "Cual?" she says. "Que?" "No entiendo." We're killing time with constant miscommunication.
A wave of nausea and cramps hits me. "?Hay un ban~o?" I ask.
The pharmacy assistant opens a door to...a set of thirty gray, concrete stairs. I start my way up at a steady pace, hoping I'll be quick enough to get there and slow enough to avoid jarring my intestines too much. My sandals slap against the concrete. Slap. Slap. With each footfall, I say a little prayer to Saint-I-Don't-Want-To-Shit-My-Pants.
Please.
Please.
I open the door to a grimy, gray bathroom with no soap or toilet paper, but since it has a toilet not already filled with anything disgusting, I'm delighted to be there.
I do my thing, and I'm just about finished, when I hear Silvia calling to me that the doctor is ready to see me. I can't lose my place in line. Damn it. Down the stairs. Down the stairs. Same little prayers.
The doctor tests my two days of Spanish classes by asking me my date of birth and known allergies. I answer him, puke into the plastic bag, answer, puke. He palpates my belly, announces the usual case of "turista." He says, "I'm going to give you an injection now."
He's speaking Spanish, but I understand him instantly. I look down at the floor which is coated in a gray film. The baseboards are lined with quarter-inch ant-ridges of dirt and other particles.
I try to say, "I'm not going to let you give me an injection because your floor is dirty," but it comes out as, "No shot. Dirty floor."
I'm being rude to his face, but I don't care.
"Now, why are you afraid of the injection?" he asks.
I use non-verbal communication now. I hold up one finger. I open up the plastic bag with both hands. My body shakes. I puke.
Miercoles Negro, Parte Uno
As I get ready to leave my room for breakfast before my third day of Spanish class, I realize my ATM card is missing.
I go into the dining room, tell Silvia and Antonio what the deal is, and ask if either of them will go with me to the cash machine. Silvia's got a ton of cooking and cleaning to do, and Antonio has breakfast to eat and class to get to. Maybe it's too much to ask. I'm confident I can muddle through the search for the card on my own, go back to the grocery store where I probably left the card in the machine, etc... but someone with better Spanish could help me work out the nuances, the social finesse and patience that always get me the inside scoop and the better deal back home. Antonio looks at me like I'm crazy to ask.
If the situation were reversed, would I do it for him? Probably. At times I truly enjoy jumping into other people's problems as a means to forget my own. Unfortunately, thus far Antonio has only been good for 1) correcting my Spanish 2) commenting that I'm not learning Spanish quickly enough or working hard enough 3) interrupting to comment, "I don't think so," when I refuse a second helping at comida and someone asks if I'm on a diet. Because of the language barrier, the little bastard has been getting away with calling me fat.
"Fine," I say, "just tell me how to say I left my card." I know it's "salir" if a person leaves, and that "llevar" is to take someone somewhere or to wear or for takeout food, but...
"Dejar," he says. "Say, 'deje mi tarjeta.'"
At least he gives me that.
At the store, the security guard pulls out a long list of lost-and-found items, catalogued by date and area of the store. It looks very specific and organized. Maybe the old Chedraui is going to come through for me, I think. Maybe this grocery store will finally make up for having a name that's so hard to pronounce.
But no luck.
At home Silvia and I debate whether the card comes out before or after the cash. I'm certain that it comes after, that the outdated Chedraui machine is just like the ATMs of the 80s and 90s that suck your card in. I manage to call my bank via Skype and cancel the card, and luckily I have a second card to use.
A few days later, I go to get some cash with the other card and pay careful attention to when the card comes back out of the machine.
Yes, it does come out after the cash. And then as the card sticks out of the machine waiting for you to take it, a loud bonging noise sounds off, and a little disco light above the machine starts spinning around and flashing.
Apparently I had been so caught up in protecting my PIN and checking for fraud gadgets on the machine, I had ignored an entire circus.
I go into the dining room, tell Silvia and Antonio what the deal is, and ask if either of them will go with me to the cash machine. Silvia's got a ton of cooking and cleaning to do, and Antonio has breakfast to eat and class to get to. Maybe it's too much to ask. I'm confident I can muddle through the search for the card on my own, go back to the grocery store where I probably left the card in the machine, etc... but someone with better Spanish could help me work out the nuances, the social finesse and patience that always get me the inside scoop and the better deal back home. Antonio looks at me like I'm crazy to ask.
If the situation were reversed, would I do it for him? Probably. At times I truly enjoy jumping into other people's problems as a means to forget my own. Unfortunately, thus far Antonio has only been good for 1) correcting my Spanish 2) commenting that I'm not learning Spanish quickly enough or working hard enough 3) interrupting to comment, "I don't think so," when I refuse a second helping at comida and someone asks if I'm on a diet. Because of the language barrier, the little bastard has been getting away with calling me fat.
"Fine," I say, "just tell me how to say I left my card." I know it's "salir" if a person leaves, and that "llevar" is to take someone somewhere or to wear or for takeout food, but...
"Dejar," he says. "Say, 'deje mi tarjeta.'"
At least he gives me that.
At the store, the security guard pulls out a long list of lost-and-found items, catalogued by date and area of the store. It looks very specific and organized. Maybe the old Chedraui is going to come through for me, I think. Maybe this grocery store will finally make up for having a name that's so hard to pronounce.
But no luck.
At home Silvia and I debate whether the card comes out before or after the cash. I'm certain that it comes after, that the outdated Chedraui machine is just like the ATMs of the 80s and 90s that suck your card in. I manage to call my bank via Skype and cancel the card, and luckily I have a second card to use.
A few days later, I go to get some cash with the other card and pay careful attention to when the card comes back out of the machine.
Yes, it does come out after the cash. And then as the card sticks out of the machine waiting for you to take it, a loud bonging noise sounds off, and a little disco light above the machine starts spinning around and flashing.
Apparently I had been so caught up in protecting my PIN and checking for fraud gadgets on the machine, I had ignored an entire circus.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Dos Hombres
It's breakfast time and Juan is delighted that he now has Antonio to talk to. "What's your favorite sport," Juan asks.
"I don't really like any sports," Antonio replies.
It's no surprise to me that Antonio is not a jock. It may be cultural prejudice, but I have already interpreted many of Antonio's mannerisms as effeminate. His hands fly up to cover his mouth when he giggles. Stuff like that.
"But your favorite sport is chasing the ladies, eh?" Juan asks.
Antonio gives an emphatic, "Si."
Juan winks. They laugh together.
They delight in the understanding that they are both authentically male.
They seem happy.
And relieved.
"I don't really like any sports," Antonio replies.
It's no surprise to me that Antonio is not a jock. It may be cultural prejudice, but I have already interpreted many of Antonio's mannerisms as effeminate. His hands fly up to cover his mouth when he giggles. Stuff like that.
"But your favorite sport is chasing the ladies, eh?" Juan asks.
Antonio gives an emphatic, "Si."
Juan winks. They laugh together.
They delight in the understanding that they are both authentically male.
They seem happy.
And relieved.
Crawl, Pecho, Dorsal, Mariposa
So I find out that my host family's 24 year old son, Rodrigo, goes swimming every night and ask him to take me twice a week. I've got my goggles and I'm all ready to do my usual half-ass crawl slash dog paddle thing and we get to the pool and it's just madness, six people in a lane at a time just going nuts with the perfect crawl, muy rapido, the water frothing white, and I'm thinking how am I even going to get in there and is this what free swim is like in Mexico, like everyone is all casual all the time all day long about everything, but now, at the pool, they go fucking nuts? This is when R tells me that this is actually a swim school and they are not going to let me free swim until I take a test.
Luckily he also tells me that the crazy swimmers are the school's best team. I'm thinking the teachers will just make sure I can float so they don't have someone drown at their school, but then R. tells me that I need to show them I know four strokes. I remember the four strokes vaguely from high school, and he preps me with the names in Spanish: Crawl, Dorsal, Pecho, Mariposa. The coach comes over and tells me to take off my chuclas...my sandals a word i just learned...and he makes me do my half ass crawl and then the backstroke and doesn't even let me try the other two before announcing that I will now be in "Grupo Naranja." Right up to this moment, I had been thinking I was going to be able to trick them somehow so they'd just let me swim. But no. Now I'm in a Mexican swim class. The Orange Group.
This beautiful man in a Speedo, Jaime, soon has us all doing this thing where we swim by kicking only with our bodies turned completely sideways and our heads still straight ahead as if in a crawl. "No muebles tu cabesa," he tells me.
"Estoy tratando," I tell him.
Then I remember why I always do a half ass crawl...from the time I was a little kid, I always hated swim class. So uptight. So specific. Tiny adjustments and perfections when I just wanted to move.
I have a moment with the two friendly chubby girls in the class as I pick out the words and motions that let me know they think Jaime's demand is ridiculous too. "Es imposible," I say, and I think they let me laugh with them a bit.
The best part comes when Jaime is demonstrating the body movement for the mariposa. This beautiful man with this tight little ass is pretty much fucking the water and I'm supposed to watch this. Actually, I've been ordered to watch this. He was pretty stern about it.
Hmmm. The Orange Group. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Luckily he also tells me that the crazy swimmers are the school's best team. I'm thinking the teachers will just make sure I can float so they don't have someone drown at their school, but then R. tells me that I need to show them I know four strokes. I remember the four strokes vaguely from high school, and he preps me with the names in Spanish: Crawl, Dorsal, Pecho, Mariposa. The coach comes over and tells me to take off my chuclas...my sandals a word i just learned...and he makes me do my half ass crawl and then the backstroke and doesn't even let me try the other two before announcing that I will now be in "Grupo Naranja." Right up to this moment, I had been thinking I was going to be able to trick them somehow so they'd just let me swim. But no. Now I'm in a Mexican swim class. The Orange Group.
This beautiful man in a Speedo, Jaime, soon has us all doing this thing where we swim by kicking only with our bodies turned completely sideways and our heads still straight ahead as if in a crawl. "No muebles tu cabesa," he tells me.
"Estoy tratando," I tell him.
Then I remember why I always do a half ass crawl...from the time I was a little kid, I always hated swim class. So uptight. So specific. Tiny adjustments and perfections when I just wanted to move.
I have a moment with the two friendly chubby girls in the class as I pick out the words and motions that let me know they think Jaime's demand is ridiculous too. "Es imposible," I say, and I think they let me laugh with them a bit.
The best part comes when Jaime is demonstrating the body movement for the mariposa. This beautiful man with this tight little ass is pretty much fucking the water and I'm supposed to watch this. Actually, I've been ordered to watch this. He was pretty stern about it.
Hmmm. The Orange Group. Not bad. Not bad at all.
De Arizona
It's my first day of Spanish class, and I keep mixing up the question about how long I've been in Oaxaca with the question about how long I will be in Oaxaca. I decide to just start giving everyone my arrival and departure dates just in case.
I take a proficiency test which is whisked away from me before I am really finished and suddenly I find myself in a class studying the subjunctive. I keep up with the conjugation charts pretty well and soon it's time for conversation class.
The other two students in the class are given the chance to ask me questions about myself, and a women named Karen asks, "Apoyas los immigrantes?"
"What's 'apoyas'?" I ask.
"Do you support the immigrants?" Karen asks in English. Everyone starts snickering.
I feel heavy. Tired. It's that feeling I get every time Arizona does something stupid and a whole load of judgmental horse shit is suddenly heaped on me and all my fellow Tusconans. You know, the Facebook cheap shots full of snark and self-importance and liberal disdain. Only this isn't Facebook.
Worse yet, Juan the teacher joins in.
"I wouldn't tell people you are from Arizona," Juan says. "Just tell them you are from the United States."
I try to explain that lately Arizona is often at the mercy of a handful of idiots that gain power temporarily and that the good people usually can beat them back eventually, but, unfortunately, my Spanish 102 vocabulary fails me. And by the time I think of asking about how well Mexico is supporting its immigrants from Central America, the moment has passed.
I feel angry. It's a helpless anger, similar to the times I've felt like people aren't seeing me, but are seeing just some chick or some lesbo that they've already made up in their heads. This feels as unfair as sexism or homophobia, for sure. Yeah, I knew it would be weird coming out as queer in Mexico. I just never thought I'd be asked to be a closeted Arizonan.
I take a proficiency test which is whisked away from me before I am really finished and suddenly I find myself in a class studying the subjunctive. I keep up with the conjugation charts pretty well and soon it's time for conversation class.
The other two students in the class are given the chance to ask me questions about myself, and a women named Karen asks, "Apoyas los immigrantes?"
"What's 'apoyas'?" I ask.
"Do you support the immigrants?" Karen asks in English. Everyone starts snickering.
I feel heavy. Tired. It's that feeling I get every time Arizona does something stupid and a whole load of judgmental horse shit is suddenly heaped on me and all my fellow Tusconans. You know, the Facebook cheap shots full of snark and self-importance and liberal disdain. Only this isn't Facebook.
Worse yet, Juan the teacher joins in.
"I wouldn't tell people you are from Arizona," Juan says. "Just tell them you are from the United States."
I try to explain that lately Arizona is often at the mercy of a handful of idiots that gain power temporarily and that the good people usually can beat them back eventually, but, unfortunately, my Spanish 102 vocabulary fails me. And by the time I think of asking about how well Mexico is supporting its immigrants from Central America, the moment has passed.
I feel angry. It's a helpless anger, similar to the times I've felt like people aren't seeing me, but are seeing just some chick or some lesbo that they've already made up in their heads. This feels as unfair as sexism or homophobia, for sure. Yeah, I knew it would be weird coming out as queer in Mexico. I just never thought I'd be asked to be a closeted Arizonan.
Antagonist
After the baby shower we arrive back at the house and I'm glad when I realize that Lucy and her husband (Silvia's son) Juan Carlos want to come in and hang out. I'm still all happy about connecting with the folks at the baby shower and I'm ready to tell the rest of the family about my chicken dance, but Silvia's husband Juan meets us at the door and says almost immediately, "The new student is here. He's from Korea and he speaks perfect Spanish."
There is this quiet moment and I feel everyone is looking at me like I'm the annoying woman who speaks only broken and constantly incorrect Spanish.
Juan Carlos defends me. "At least Molly can talk a little," he says. "Some people come here and all they can say is 'hola.'"
"Yeah," I think. "You tell 'em, Juan Carlos."
The new student Antonio walks into the room and we don't get to talk about the baby shower at all. Everyone talks soccer. I catch snippets. "Se rompio." One of Mexico's best players broke his leg and won't be playing in the World Cup.
I had spent most of the day feeling elated that I could communicate more clearly in Spanish than I had ever been able to.
Now I'm getting this familiar defensive feeling. It happens to me when I climb out of my little crab shell sometimes. There was a group camping trip when I was feeling all bonded with everyone and then four new people showed up. A New's Year's Eve party one time when the same thing happened. It doesn't matter who the new people are. I always dislike them.
Antonio is a quiet kid, twenty-four years old. He picked the name Antonio because no one can pronounce his Korean name.
I don't really see Antonio at all, though. Instead I see an intruder out to ruin my Mexico experience. A competitor. An enemy.
There is this quiet moment and I feel everyone is looking at me like I'm the annoying woman who speaks only broken and constantly incorrect Spanish.
Juan Carlos defends me. "At least Molly can talk a little," he says. "Some people come here and all they can say is 'hola.'"
"Yeah," I think. "You tell 'em, Juan Carlos."
The new student Antonio walks into the room and we don't get to talk about the baby shower at all. Everyone talks soccer. I catch snippets. "Se rompio." One of Mexico's best players broke his leg and won't be playing in the World Cup.
I had spent most of the day feeling elated that I could communicate more clearly in Spanish than I had ever been able to.
Now I'm getting this familiar defensive feeling. It happens to me when I climb out of my little crab shell sometimes. There was a group camping trip when I was feeling all bonded with everyone and then four new people showed up. A New's Year's Eve party one time when the same thing happened. It doesn't matter who the new people are. I always dislike them.
Antonio is a quiet kid, twenty-four years old. He picked the name Antonio because no one can pronounce his Korean name.
I don't really see Antonio at all, though. Instead I see an intruder out to ruin my Mexico experience. A competitor. An enemy.
Adele
In the car on the way back from the baby shower that Adele song comes on, the one with the line, "never mind I'll find someone like you..."
Lucy asks me what the words mean. Here's my big chance to explain the song to her, and then whenever she listens to it from now on, she'll have more than just a tune. She'll understand the emotional content of it too. "Ella--" I begin...
"Wait," Lucy says. "Ella? You mean that the singer of this song is a woman?"
Lucy asks me what the words mean. Here's my big chance to explain the song to her, and then whenever she listens to it from now on, she'll have more than just a tune. She'll understand the emotional content of it too. "Ella--" I begin...
"Wait," Lucy says. "Ella? You mean that the singer of this song is a woman?"
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