Thanksgiving

I love Thanksgiving. It's easily surpassed Halloween as my favorite holiday in recent years. My friend Anneli described the feeling of the holiday as being pure. Christmas gets all mixed up in worry about shopping and wrapping presents and making things equal, but Thanksgiving is only about food and family and being present at the table. So, last week was a little hard for me.
I knew we would have our dinner here in Cuernavaca on Saturday (which quickly became known, thanks to yours truly and my overabundance of enthusiasm, as THANKSFRIGGINGIVIN), but I still woke up sad on Thanksgiving Day. I couldn't help but think about who was up already, pre-heating the oven for the turkey. Who would be making the sweet potatoes? What would be forgotten until the last-minute scramble? The half hour I allotted to making a few phone calls home didn't help as much as I thought they would, since the holidays in both parts of my families were pretty drastically different from tradition this year. It was hard to think the holiday might go on without me. It was harder to realize that my family's holidays are changing, and that the Thanksgivings of my childhood might be gone for good.
All of us YAGM-Mexico volunteers are, I think, getting over our honeymoon with Mexico. I recently described the feeling to a friend as "Things are getting real." My enthusiastic "These fresh tortillas are delicious!" has changed to an aggravated "Why can't I just have some dense whole-wheat bread for once?!" We've had three months to get used to the major cultural differences, and now we're working on more nuanced expectations. It's a difficult time, even without the holidays. But I am trying to remember to be thankful for this experience, even through my sadness at being so far away from home. I am trying to remember that the most influential experiences I've had in my life were also difficult at times. But mostly, I am trying to remember the prayer we sing every day before eating dinner at Casa Tatic:
 Demos Gracias al Señor,                                   We give thanks to the Lord,
Demos Gracias.                                                   We give thanks.
Demos Gracias al Señor.                                   We give thanks to the Lord.
En la mañana, que se levanta                           In the morning, the rooster sings
El gallo canta,                                                      just because he's awake,
y yo canto al Señor.                                            and I also sing to the Lord.

Our THANKSFRIGGINGIVIN dinner, by the way, was amazing.

Quilts

My mom is a quilter. There's quilts everywhere in my parents house, and we never use half of them, honestly. Me? I've always thought of myself as more of a comforter person--at least until I discovered the wonder of the german duvet. There's something about curling up with big, fluffy bedding that I really, really like, and I have usually resisted the quilt, thinking it wasn't as cozy.

The first quilt Mom made for me.

Although it's known as the City of Eternal Spring, global climate change and the arrival of big box stores like Walmart and Costco have changed Cuernavaca's climate noticably over the last five years or so. It's just starting to get cold, and very few buildings (mostly just Walmarts, ironically enough) have heating or cooling. I love my house and my family here, but I also miss my mom's handiwork. This winter, I'm craving the dense, dead weight of a thickly batted quilt.

Respect

I mentioned in my newsletter that I asked a student "That's not respectful, is it?" This has become my personal teaching mantra. Respect is an idea that seems to be understood at a much earlier age here than in the US, and yet something that is so rarely enacted. Talking about respect has proven my single greatest tool in behavior management both in and outside the classroom.
A five-year-old snatches a crayon that doesn't belong to him away from another child. "That's not respectful, is it?" "No, maestra." 
An eight-year-old is talking loudly in class instead of paying attention. "That's not respectful, is it?" "No, maestra." 
A pre-teen throws a ball at a toddler to watch them topple. "That's not respectful, is it?" "No, maestra."


There is a four-year-old in the la estación kinder who introduces himself as "Luisito." His enthusiasm for chatting up his classmates is sometimes a source of frustration for us, since his work rarely gets completed, and he's behind his classmates in terms of motor skills, color and letter recognition. But he has one of the best memories I've ever seen; it reminds me of Caleb's movie-quoting. If you say something directly to Luisito, he will remember it. The other day when we were eating our lunches outside, a teenager (who didn't seem to have a connection to any of the kids in the kinder) threw an empty potato chip bag in the middle of the road when he was done eating it. This isn't uncommon in Mexico, and especially not in la estación, but nevertheless, Luisito tore off after him, screaming "¡Éso no es respeto, hombre!" The teen was so surprised by this public outcry that he picked up his trash and put it in a nearby bin. Luisito has a masterful strut for a four-year-old.

Buon Compleanno, mamma!

A very happy birthday to my moms today!

Newsletter

My October newsletter is now uploaded here.

Pan de Muertos

This weekend, I got the chance to go make pan de muertos with Anneli and her host family. It was so much fun, both because we got to play with bread dough, and because Anneli's host family reminds me so much of my extended family in North Carolina. It felt surprisingly like home.

Delphilia, trying to show me the right way to shape my hand
so as to make the balls of dough smooth and even.

Anneli wrote a really beautiful post that I hope you'll read about the process and experience. I especially love the final paragraph:

We take home three large cardboard boxes full of bread. Golden brown and colorful, some of it will adorn our Día de los Muertos altar and be an offering to the dead. The rest of it we will share with neighbors and the rest of the extended family, and all will enjoy eating it for the next several weeks. For today, this tradition in honor of the dead has invited us to treasure life and remember those who have died. It has brought together three generations of the living and people and traditions from the north of the United States to the south of Mexico. As far as I can tell, that's what the Day of the Dead is about. 

Día de los Muertos

Today, 2 November, was Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. Sam was here visiting after our monthly community gathering (which I was surprised to learn I'm alone in calling "community day," a throwback, I'm sure, to my BSC days), and we visited Ocutupec, a pueblo just north of Cuernavaca that is known for its celebrations on this holiday. Any household that has experienced a death within the last year opens its doors to visitors, who pass by an ofrenda to the deceased, heavy with flowers, littered with candles, and stacked with piles of sweets, breads, favorite foods, soda, and alcohol. Visitors bring a gift of candles or marigolds, the traditional flower of Día de los Muertos, to offer the family. In return, the family offers a snack, most commonly pan de muertos and ponche, a seasonal punch that tastes not unlike cider.
Visiting these ofrendas was such an exciting cultural experience, but also one that made me feel more like a tourist than I usually do. It was sometimes hard to get a feel for what was expected of visitors. Is it okay to take pictures? Should I clap when the mariachi band finishes a song? Is this a party, or a wake? I quickly found that the expectations, and the experience, varied from house to house. Some seemed happy to have so many visitors, honored to be able to offer hospitality, and glad to be celebrating life. Some were obviously still mourning their loss in such a personal way that I felt like an intruder into a very private space. I think it will be a long time before I have fully processed the evening.

Licha, my "mexomom," went to the cemetery yesterday to drop off some flowers, and again this morning, but she invited me to return with her after lunch today. She said the whole family would be there, hanging out for most of the afternoon and evening. I was a little unsure as to whether I would be intruding on an important family event, but I was curious to see a Mexican cemetery, so I agreed.
When we got there, I was surprised that they handed me two small chairs to carry in so we had a place to sit. There were people on the street selling more marigolds and candles. The graves were spaced close together, some at odd angles so as to fit another casket in between existing ones. It was impossible to walk between the graves, but it didn't seem to bother anyone at all to walk right on top of them, as long as they didn't disturb any of the decorations in the process.
Along the way, Licha pointed out her brother, mother, in-laws, cousins, family of her brother-in-law, and a son who died in infancy. She said we were going to sit near her husband's family, because there was more space. All of the graves of "our" family had already been decorated, but I noticed families all around us arranging silk flowers, weeding the top of the graves, and watering the potted marigolds. We greeted aunts and cousins and then sat for a while in contented silence; I remembered visiting my Mawmaw and Pawpaw's graves just before leaving for language school. I felt it should be a somber occasion for reflection and remembering, but the air felt so light, so full of life. Everywhere people were chatting or laughing or singing songs or saying prayers, but no one was crying. No one was kneeling by a grave whispering into the dirt. We were there, in the presence of those who have passed, but our attentions were turned to the living.