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.