Tour-ation through the city-ation!

As I watched the crocodiles munching the huge pieces of raw meat chucked at them by the restaurant owners, it dawned on me that this was a once in a lifetime experience.  A kid stood there with us, offering various anecdotes about the crocodiles.  "That's nice," I thought.  "He's really friendly."  He continued to stand there with us...until my friend gave him money, and he scampered off.  Not so friendly, I guess.  Just enterprising.   

Nothing says happy Mother's Day like a personalized video tour, Lonely Planet style.  Thus, that's how I spent my Saturday evening.  Besides, how else was I supposed to help my mom celebrate her birthday birthday and Mother's Day?  Some of my awesome friends from church filmed it, and people said random things in Spanish, English, and Chinese.  I'm not at all involved in the editing process, which admittedly, scares me just a little.  ;)  Como sea, I suppose...  Pase lo que pase.  Story of my life.  In any case, I'm confident that it'll be pretty fly, and it will probably be the most unique present my mom receives for a couple of years. 

Church friends...

I just revealed my excessive whiteness as I tried to use the slang term "fly", in case you didn't notice. :P

We went to the Play Place in McDonald's as part of the tour.  Naturally, I kicked off my shoes and proceeded to climb inside the jungle gym.  Advantage of being a foreigner = whenever I do something weird, it's obviously because I'm not from here and I don't know any better.  At least, that's what I told myself as all the parents watched the 24-year-old lunatic white girl climb the tubes with their 6 and 7-year-olds.  

As we passed through the marketplace, I loudly explained the various products and produce to the camera in English.  Some guy yelled out something random in English with a heavy accent, which I completely ignored.  People were turning and staring at us the whole time, and I felt like I might as well have been wearing a burka.  I'm pretty sure that people would have stared just as much.

Later on, we went by the park along the river.  My crazy friend saw some Greek guys and decided to go talk to them.  A few minutes later, I glanced over and caught a snippet of their conversation.  My Spanish-speaking friend was gesturing broadly and yelling, "Vacation, vacation!" with a heavy accent as the poor Greek guys tried to respond in English.  When I wandered over and spoke to them in perfect English, the look of relief on their faces was priceless.  Thus, I translated from English to Spanish and from Spanish to English for 2 Greek sailors and my Mexican friend.  If that's not cross-cultural, then I don't know what is.

I enjoyed being a tourist yesterday while accompanied by friends, but today, the stares as I wandered downtown looking for jeans irked me.  Being a tourist with friends is like being an honored guest; being a tourist by yourself is just lonely.  Unwanted attention is a hazard of being a foreigner, I suppose, but I don't much like it.  Sometimes, I feel like I'm carrying around a big sign that says, "WHITE. SPEAKS ENGLISH."  Some random kid came up to me this week on the street and asked, "Das clases de ingles, verdad?"  ("You teach English classes, right?")  How on earth did he know?!  

Overall, I feel comfortable here.  Most of the time, I feel like this is where I belong.  Yet there are still those times when I could really use an invisibility cloak...

Glowing

As a white girl from a white town, I'm used to being the majority.  I'm not used to curious glances or stares.  I'm not used to people having to explain words that are new to me or explaining simple concepts with the assumption that I don't understand. However, it's not just the fact that I'm in the minority that intrigues me.  It's the fact that Mexican attitudes regarding skin color and ideal beauty are quite different .

Mexicans walk around with umbrellas, not because of frequent rain (um, over the past month, it has sprinkled once...).  On the contrary, women use umbrellas to block the sun and remain as light-skinned as possible.  

"I really like your skin," one girl told me.  I was sitting in my living room with three, perfectly and naturally tanned high school and college-aged girls.  They were olive-skinned without any effort, and yet they wanted to be pasty white.  

Mind = blown.  

I tried explaining the concept of tanning booths to people who use umbrellas to prevent tanning.  I'm really not sure that I succeeded.

In Mexico, in order to ask someone what he or she does for a living, you literally say, "To what do you dedicate yourself?"  An occupation is more than a job here; its' your identity.  Many students don't know my name.  I'm "Teacher," and many students leave the classroom with, "Thank you, Teacher" after every class.  This usually leaves me feeling slightly embarrassed and a little ashamed to receive far more respect than I deserve.

I was in line at Soriana (Mexican Wal-mart), speaking English with a Mexican friend, when a man pushed past my friend with, "Permiso" but proceeded past me with, "Excuse me."  Although we were both speak English fluently, my friend had been identified as a real Mexican, whereas I had been labeled as a non-Spanish-speaking foreigner.  

I had been stereotyped.  

I had heard the phrase, "They all look the same to me,"  but in my reality, we look the same to them.  I was observing an English class taught by my German friend (who is fluent in 3 languages...yeah...be impressed!), when one of the students told her, "I thought she was your little sister!"  My friend is small and short, has light hair and very blue eyes, and speaks with a German accent.  Yes, we're practically twins.  Another student believed that the German teacher was my mother, even though we are roughly the same age.  That was weird.

Overall, I don't like being the fluorescent bulb in a chandelier of incandescent lights.  I feel as though I have a giant "GRINGA" sign on my forehead.  At the same time, my American nationality is a conversation starter.  I get the chance to exchange customs and share stories with people from another culture.  

That's pretty cool.  



 

Whatever happens, happens.

On Thursday evening, I arrived at an apartment complex with my suitcase, backpack, and pillow.  The building looked sketchy by American standards, but I also realized that it's concrete facade, concrete interior, and open windows without screens would be functional in this climate.  I had no food with me, other than some excellent peppermint flavored mocha covered coffee beans and Reese's, both courtesy of my rather wise former roommate who had foreseen my need for both chocolate and caffeine.

By the time morning classes had ended the next day, I was rather in need of some sustenance, so off I went with my new roommate to Wal-mart (yes, Wal-mart is taking over the world) to buy some American food.  As I'm quite skilled with the microwave but have a bit of trouble with anything that involves the stove or oven, I decided that I should stick to American cousine, at least initially. 

With the help of my roommate, I was able to take a taxi to Wal-mart, pay a rather high amount of money for my food (I didn't know the exchange rate at the time), and return with said items.  Everything went as planned....until I tried to put the frozen pizza in the freezer.

Americans have a love for ready-to-make, frozen foods that is not typical throughout the world.  As I opened the fridge and looked at the small, icy box that was supposed to contain my big bags of frozen peas and broccoli, as well as the pizza, I realized that my pizza was at least 3 inches wider than the freezer.  

"Does it have to stay frozen all the time?"  My roommate inquired.  I confirmed that indeed, frozen pizzas must remain frozen.  

Using my excellent problem-solving skills, I decided to cook it.  As I turned away from the small freezer, my eyes were drawn to the large wad of plastic bags and newspapers contained within the tiny oven.  The oven was used for storage, not cooking.

Mexicans don't bake.  Sure, they eat plenty of tortillas (seriously....breakfast, lunch, and dinner), and they even have sandwich bread, as well as a few assorted baked goods, but generally, they buy them ready-made from tiny shops or the supermarket.  

As I removed bag after bag, my roommate returned to the kitchen and began cleaning out the cobwebs.  When she had finished, she grabbed the matches and lit the pilot light at the bottom of the stove, but the fire went out.  Two or three times, she tried light it, but each time, the fire was soon extinguished.  "I use the stove, but I've never used the oven," she informed me.  

At her suggestion, I cut the pizza in half and stuck it in the microwave.  Considering my unconventional method, the pizza was surprisingly edible.  In retrospect, it was probably fortunate that we couldn't get the oven to work because the knob simply showed how to increase and decrease the heat; there were no numbers to indicate the temperature at which the oven would heat.  

Overall, I have truly enjoyed my time here thus far. There have been several moments in which I felt very white, very far from home, and more than a little confused.  I have also had several typical Whitney moments, including the two times in which I attempted to place my items in someone else's cart at Wal-mart.  I have struggled with the lack of planning here, as I typically require more than 10 minutes to review material before I am expected to teach it.  When I arrived, I was told that I would be staying with a family a couple of days before moving to a more permanent home, as they had been unable to reach my soon-to-be-roommate during Christmas vacation.  A "few days" turned into a week, as it was eventually decided that they should build a closet for me before I moved in.  

I'm truly excited to continue this new adventure.  I'm learning Mexican Spanish, as the dialect here is quite different from the Dominican Republic; I encounter Mexican culture daily, but I also have the chance to interact with people from all over the world.  As one man told me, the language institute "is like the United Nations."  There is a German, a Kiwi, a Chinese lady, a Ukrainian-born Russian who spent time in Germany and has lived in the U.S. for the past 15 years, as well as several Mexicans who have spent extended periods of time in the U.S.  Ironically, I will be the only American teaching English.  

Currently, I'm searching for a church.  Mexicans are traditionally Catholic, although several other churches make their presence felt.  Mexicans separate people into what they refer to as "Christians" and "Catholics."  As we passed by one Protestant church, a Mexican friend informed me, "That's your church."  While it is entirely possible that this particular church shares my beliefs, I find the assumption that all Protestant churches share the same beliefs and practices to be rather intriguing.  The other day, a friend asked me the differences between churches, so I explained what I believe.   

Perspective is everything.  To a Hoosier like me, it is HOT here.  The day after I arrived, I walked out of the stifling bedroom and into the kitchen, hair lifted off my neck in a vain attempt to cool off, and was handed a cup of hot chocolate "for the cold."  Apparently, 85 degree weather is classified as winter here.  Who knows?  By the time I return to the states, perhaps my definition of winter will change.  

Perhaps my perspective on several aspects of life will change.  

The Unraveling of the Ties That Bind

When I announced that I was leaving for a year, I received a variety of responses.  There was shock (You're doing what?!  Why???), excitement (Oh wow!  What an opportunity!  I'm so jealous!), and sadness (You're leaving me?).   People wanted to get together, make sure that I had the full American experience before leaving (because I obviously haven't had enough time to experience America over the past 23 years), and exchange e-mail addresses.  As I have said my farewells to friends, clients, and coworkers over the past few weeks, I've felt sadness, the sting of regret, and a sense of finality that isn't easily explained.  For me, the hardest part of moving to Mexico is not leaving family and long established friendships for a year; I find it much more difficult to leave friendships that have shaky foundations, that may or may not have a rebirth when I return in a year.  

Over the past year and a half, I have spent a semester in the Dominican Republic, worked for 8 months as a case manager, and lived in the Impact ministry house.  I've built relationships with urban youth, therapists, doctors, teachers, parents, coworkers, college students, other young adults, and people of all ages.  I have roomed with 2 complete strangers and one almost-stranger.  Relationships were built on the foundation of American culture, mutual connections, sheer convenience, and work.  I have more friends and acquaintances today than I've ever had in my life. 

As these relationships developed, I realized that some of them lacked lasting materials, such as common worldviews, shared interests, and the love of Christ.  As I began to make arrangements to leave, it occurred to me that the chords that tied us together had already begun to unravel.  I continued to cling to the remaining strands, reluctant to let go of people I truly care about and the shared experiences that bonded us together.  

As Tolkien so eloquently stated, "I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter over too much bread."  Don't misunderstand me.  I don't regret any new bonds that have been formed, but I regret their untimely ends.  I feel as though someone is scraping my heart with sandpaper every time I realize that I'm not just saying a temporary adieu but rather am severing my whole relationship with an individual.  As one friend and coworker told me, "Well, Whitney...have a nice life."  I wasn't hurt by this statement, but it made me think...I have the chance to interact with people for just a while, the chance to impact and be impacted by them for a short period in life before that opportunity is taken away.      

When I come back to the U.S. in a year, I'm sure that a fraction of the people who I consider to be friends today will want to see me, and even those friendships will be a little awkward at first.  Relationships aren't fixed and unchangeable.  Relationships are fluid, like the people that they connect.  After a year, on the surface, I may have very little in common with anyone, even my best friends, and yet I cling to the fact that we share a common purpose to live every moment to give glory to the Savior, as well as a love that comes only from love Himself.  These are the bonds that transcend culture, distance, and time.

Please, friends, stay in touch.  :)