Gratitudes and giving thanks for everyone in my life. A little (true) story from Mi Vida Loca:
The man in the uniform waved us through the first set of barriers. We pulled slowly forward as the second set of men in uniforms waved us to our spot. We sat perched precariously atop boxes filled with dried goods, coolers filled with ice, butter, and milk, and finally cushioned in sleeping bags. We carefully navigated around bread, potato chips and other breakables packed on top with us. We were packed to the gills in that van and sat nervously as we realize we were going to be questioned about our reasons for visiting Mexico.
The dog began barking furiously as the uniformed man approached. I grabbed her by her collar and told her to stop. She continued a low growl of warning as the man leaned into the window surveying our inventory while watching each of our hands. He began speaking with the person in the front passenger seat. I was sitting in the back and couldn’t hear everything that was being said. I don’t speak Spanish very well and all I could understand was, “papeles”, “perro”, “muy mal”, “no.” From what I gathered, this man was asking for the dog’s papers and saying that she was a bad dog and that she wouldn’t be allowed into Mexico.
We had just driven, cramped and stuffed for four hours, from Tucson to Lukeville Port of Entry and there was no way I was going to drive back to take the dog home.
I climbed down from my perch and got out of the van. The man was tall, at least 6’4”, and imposing in stature. I tried to speak to him, in my broken Spanish, and explain she was not a bad dog. She had all of her shots, her papers were in order, and she was a family member. He let me get all the way through it… shooting questions at me in Spanish and then looking at me and smiling as I struggled to tell him in my own special Spanglish, the answers to his questions. I had tears in my eyes as I struggled to understand if he was saying he was going to take my dog.
The man looked directly at me and said, “Okay, Ma’am. You can go. Have a nice day.” in the most perfect English accent. I looked into his eyes and saw the play of power. He smiled and waved us along. I turned and said, “Let’s get out of here.” My first thought was to run him over but then, I was in Mexico and anything could happen, so I just pushed the dog to the back and climbed back up onto my perch. We talked about it all the way to Rocky Point.
I’d lived in Arizona for years and, other than the occasional shopping trip into Nogales, this was my first real trip into Mexico. I was going with my girlfriend, her co-workers, and our dog for a weekend getaway. We were staying at someone’s beach house in Puerto Penasco, otherwise known as Rocky Point, a very “Americanized” area in the Sea of Cortez. I was excited to be going to the beach despite the fact that I didn’t really know anyone and they seemed to be a group of partiers. I was there on my own agenda and that’s why I had taken the dog along. I wouldn’t be part of their “work retreat” and could do whatever I wanted. It all sounded so good when it was pitched to me up until we got to Lukeville.
I realized that my blond-haired, blue-eyed, Anglo-self, was going into a foreign country where I barely spoke the language and stood out like the gringa that I am. It brought back memories of being at a new high school in New Mexico and all of the discrimination I felt in being the “pelo amarillo” girl with thick glasses, a terrible case of shyness, and no friends. I got the crap beat out of me a couple of times just for being the only white girl walking home on the same route as some very tough Hispanic girls. For all of the things I love about New Mexico and the Hispanic culture, this was a very difficult time in my life.
Adolescence and my parents divorcing were bad enough. The culture was new to me and I loved it. I’d been accepted by many but those who didn’t… were very harsh. The experience with the border policeman was just like that… he was messing with us. I hadn’t experienced discrimination prior to this in my white, middle-class, Catholic school existence. I really didn’t know what to make of it but I did know that I didn’t like it. As I got older, it colored my world, both figuratively and specifically in how I felt about my rainbow of friends. I was and am intolerant of ignorance, meanness, and discrimination. I don’t care what color you are if that is who you are; you ain’t in my world!
It was hot and muggy in the house. The windows had been closed for over two months making the rooms smell musty with a slight scent of rotting fish. I immediately pulled out my sage, lit the end, and walked around smudging every room. Once I’d cleared the energies and smells of the house, we settled into making it our own. There was a beautiful, covered patio with three chimineas, plants, comfortable chairs and tables, all facing the sea. I plopped myself into one of the cozy chairs and waited for the coffee to be done.
The dog was very excited and ran around checking everything out. She ran out to the surf, jumped into the water, shook, turned, looked at me and then ran back up and shook on me. She thought it was very funny and kept nosing under my arm to get me up and out of that chair. I got up, took my shoes off and walked out onto the hot sand. Feeling the scorch, I ran for the cool of the surf!
The sand was very different from the soft, silky sands of California. It was not soft on my feet. It cut into me like little broken pieces of glass. In actuality, it was little broken pieces of shells that had been tumbled over and over into a small fineness. It still hurt to walk on so I scurried back up to the house and slipped on my Vans. The dog was lapping and jumping at me to get back out onto the beach! Now that I could walk comfortably, I began my “beach routine” of scouring the sands for shells.
This was a very strange beach, indeed. There were very few shells that weren’t broken or chipped. I noticed the surf was very choppy and short and there was very little seaweed. There was, however, quite a lot of trash on the beach and in the surf. I noticed several dead fish, a couple of gooey looking things, something that was squishy when I poked it, and a pile something really smelly that the dog tried to roll in. It was a dead sea lion. So far, my trip into Mexico wasn’t going so well. I decided to just make the best of it because I certainly couldn’t take the bus home with the dog.
I sat down on the warm sand and called the dog over. She sat next to me and we watched the little birds scurry in and out with the surf looking for something to eat. Suddenly, I thought I heard, “Hola.” I turned around looked up into the sun. There I saw the silhouette of a man holding a bag in his hand.
“Hola.”, I said hesitantly.
“Would you like to buy?” he said, in slightly broken English.
He opened his bag and had all kinds of silver jewelry, toys, trinkets, belts, wallets, and other “Hecho en Mexico” items. He smiled at me, took off his floppy hat, and crouched down to give me a closer look.
I had no idea where he came from or how he was able to sneak up on me and the dog so quickly. I guess we were so engrossed in the activity of the birds and the sounds of the surf that we didn’t hear him walk up. Neither of us felt particularly threatened but I was alone and this made me hesitate slightly.
He had a kind smile and soft brown eyes and I could tell from what he was wearing that he was a local who worked these beaches regularly. I patted the sand and invited him to sit with me. He spoke English fairly well and I occasionally peppered mine with Spanish words which probably amused him.
His name was Miguel and he lived in a small village about three miles away. He was a very nice man and explained that he made his living by working the shrimp boats and selling souvenirs to the touristas. He had a wife and two children and three cousins living in his house. He had been on his daily walk home when he saw me and decided to stop. He told me that we were there during the off season. When I asked why it was the off season, he told me it was because it was too hot, too many flies, and shrimping was at a minimum for most American touristas. I hadn’t really noticed but it was my first time visiting that area.
Miguel was very gracious as he told me the better places to buy souvenirs, where to eat (and where not to), and where not to go after dark. His face was a deep cinnamon-brown color with dark creases along his mouth, cheeks, and eyes. His forehead had one long, crinkled line from squinting in the sun. His fingers were short with dried, white calluses running along the edges to the nubs of his fingertips. He spread his fingers slightly as he pointed and then drew the Sea of Cortez in the sand. His hands looked strong as the veins poke out creating mountains and valleys of skin over bone. He gestured elegantly as he spoke about the Sea and its many riches. He lost me when he began talking about the de-salinization plant they were going to build and how it would hurt the shrimping industry. His caramelly accent was slathered over his articulate blend of Spanish and English words, mesmerizing me in its texture.
I heard my name being called. The dog jumped up as if it were her own and ran back to the house. I turned and pointed to where we were staying and invited him to come up after we ate as I was sure everyone would buy something. We both stood and I extended my hand to him. He took it and smiled at me warmly while saying my name in Spanish, “Natalia.” followed with, “Gracias, Senora.”
As I walked away, I glanced back and saw him sling his bag over his shoulder, pick up his shoes and walk barefoot along the surf. I imagined his feet are as rough as his hands and savored a romantic thought of how wonderful it must be to walk along this beach enough to not have to wear shoes. His clothes were clean but worn and his shoes were hand-me-down golf shoes without the spikes. I thought to myself that he was probably more comfortable barefoot than in those shoes. My romantic thoughts faded into the reality of his situation. I didn’t feel sorry for him. He seemed content yet hard-working.
The beach looked differently to me now. I slipped off my Vans and carefully walked along on the sea-glass-sand. The house we were staying in looked opulent from this view considering where my mind just wandered in from. Everyone was waving handfuls of beers at me. “Cerveza!” they yelled! I smiled and continued on my way while thinking of Miguel and his life. He did come back later and ended up pocketing quite a few American dollars from all of us. Life and vacation carried on in a symbiotic dance of what’s good for mine is good for yours. To a degree.
Everything that I experienced in Mexico was both beautiful and ugly. There were two sides to everything from the beautiful resort grandly guarding the entrance of the beach, to the shacks just two streets over that housed the workers. Two sides; from the fact that I could have my dog sit with me at the restaurant to the fact that I could have my dog even BE in the restaurant were both beautiful and scary.
I came home from that trip with a bad case of dysenteric problems. I hadn’t drunk any water but didn’t even think about it when I drank my Coca Cola in a glass with ice. I needed that coke considering how yummy the fish tacos were and how the chilé left a lingering burning on the roof of my mouth.
I was thankful to finally be home and in my own bed. I was grateful for the little pills that made me feel better. I was filled with gratitude in being able to join the group and yet have my own peace on the beach every day. I was glad to have met Miguel whom I saw every day I was there and would wave and say, “Hola, Miguel. Como estas?” and feel so proud of myself that I could simply ask how he was without really being able to understand the entire answer to that question. I’m not sure I really wanted to know, fully, but I liked how he made me feel welcome in his country.
I got to thinking about how things are both beautiful and ugly in my own country. I realized there was no difference between Mexico and the United States because, really, it was all relative to that which we call home and those whom we call family. Sure, Mexico has a lot more poverty and difficult situations than the U.S. but when it comes to the human factor, we all have one thing in common: how we treat each other. Whether it is a power-filled policeman or a hard working Joe/Jose’ or a woman walking along the beach with her dog; how we connect is the most important thing for all of us.
I guess, gratitude is relative to the realities in our lives. Things and people come and go with only the memories to garnish our lives in either gratitude or resentments. This, to me, is how we build our lives and learn to love and forgive and appreciate and let go… Family, whatever you make of it, is all that matters. My “family” consists of everyone in my life. Everyone. And it’s hard and easy and fun and painful and all of those things that make up mis/ustedes vida loca.
¡por vida mía!
Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone.
I cherish all of you.