a Montanan in Mexico

last post

Sun, 24 Feb 2013 22:21:24 -0600

Like with all “travel blogs” (Does that this fit in that category? Even though I blogged in said “travel” destination for a year?), this blog must come to an end. So this one has. And I will pick up on a new one. Find new posts (once I find the inspiration) at iermine.tumblr.com.

"oh, oh, it's so different here..."

Mon, 03 Sep 2012 00:44:00 -0500

You know when you have adapted to a culture when you stop making statements like “Oh, oh it’s so different here because…”. Focusing on the differences is a way we distance ourselves. It is safe - kind of like having reservations in a relationship. If we keep our distance, there is no way to fall in love. Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I let go of my distance; I got intimate with a culture; and I DID fall in love. That’s why I’m about to do what one does when they need to get over a breakup. Having just moved back to the United States after spending nearly a year in Mexico, I’m going to make my “oh, oh, it’s so different here” list. I do this to distance myself, lessen my grief, and share with my fellow compatriots some of the observations that are worth sharing (at the risk of sounding like a little boy tapping his finger on the aquarium, obnoxiously disturbing the goldfish). The point is, I adapted. Now, it’s time to reverse that. Oh, oh it’s so different here because…

Fireworks explode at random times. It doesn’t matter the time of year. They just always explode.

Shoes are worn at all times. In the house and in the shower. Being barefoot or wearing socks while lazying around the house does not exist.

It is universally accepted to make fun of telenovelas (soap operas), but also universally accepted that every family watches at least one.

Everyone has a hotmail account.

Young people drink a lot here - and it is common to do so while driving in circles around the town center.

The police carry large, in-your-face guns.

Everyone is Catholic.

The above is a loaded point - this implies many, many cultural nuances. Catholic guilt. Sexuality as taboo. Everyone crosses themselves when they pass a church. There is a Virgin Mary in every establishment - the hair salon, the Walmart, the local…

Bumper stickers don’t exist here. I’ve seen posters that cover the back window of cars, but not bumper stickers.

Zoning regulations don’t exist. The result is colorful, chaotic and alarming. Lots of different buildings of different sizes and colors and materials and used for residential or commercial or agricultural or whatever purposes.

People do not have dishwashers nor dryers. We hang dry our clothing and we hand wash our dishes.

It is very, very common (even in middle class families) to have a Señora help with the house work. And she almost always is more morena (darker).

On that point, people are not afraid to talk about race here. There is no such thing as “political correctness” and euphamisms exist in the political realm, but not ever regarding race. A common distinction is to call someone morena or guerra - dark skinned or light skinned.

All men gel their hair when they are getting dressed-up. It’s a mix between European and metrosexual and my 8th grade classroom of boys.

Women wear high heels often. Extremely high heels. Even during the day. Heck, I’ve even started to wear them.

When you order something at a restaurant, it will never come out together. Your friend ordered one thing that will arrive 20 minutes before your food will get there. You’ll think that the waiter forgot your order, so you’ll notify him, and he’ll tell you that you’re food will be out “ahorita.” The definition of “ahorita” is a whole different tangent. Literal translation = right now. Adjusted for cultural context definition = anytime between right now and within the next hour. Or maybe more. Really, whenever I feel like it.

Infidelity is common. I don’t know that it’s not common in the United States, but it’s a near-universal accepted truth here. Hey, as long as you confess before mass on Sunday, it’s ok, right?

Seat belts in the back seats of car are tucked behind the upholstery because it is commonly believed that belts are only necessary in the front seat.

When you compliment the outfit, jewelry, whatever of another person, the response is “cuando gustes!” (whenever you’d like to wear it, it’s yours). Similarly, whenever you ask where someone lives, the response is “Your house is located right over by that business. Whenever you’d like, that’s where your house is.” It doesn’t matter if you met the person 5 minutes ago, that will be their response. It makes our concept of Southern Hospitality look like child’s play.

The list could go on, and will continue to grow. All I can say is: I miss it. Every absurdity that became a normality. Every acquaintance that became an true relationship. It’s a part of me now. Te extraño y te amo mi Querido México. Te voy a volver pronto ;)

the united states

Fri, 13 Jul 2012 23:20:58 -0500

I am back in the United States after spending nearly a year in Mexico. I have several draft posts that never quite made it to my blog, so I plan to do so over the next few weeks. Whether I continue to write depends on whether I’m inspired to do so in my new context: Great Falls, Montana. Welcome “home.”

the mysterious dolls of xochimilco I had the chance to visit...

Sat, 02 Jun 2012 12:54:03 -0500

the boats of xochimilco

the mysterious dolls of xochimilco

I had the chance to visit Xochimilco when my mom came to visit me in March. Xochimilco is one of the 16 delegaciones (burroughs) in Mexico City. It’s known for its numerous canals that date back to prehispanic times. It has become quite the tourist and local hotspot because of the ability to tour the area on bright, colorful boats (see above), while indulging in tacos or barbacoa, drinking micheladas (beer with hot sauce, salt and lime), and listening to Marriachi bands float by on boats filled with musicians and artisans.

There are several artificial agricultural plots along the canals called Chinampas. These islands were made over 1,000 years ago by the Aztecs, and many remain in existance today. One chinampa became particularly famous because the island’s sole inhabitant was obsessed with collecting broken dolls and hanging them from the trees. Julián Santana Barrera passed away recently in 2001, having spent his whole life living on this island and collecting these dolls. Santana Barrera claimed that the dolls kept evil spirits away, and also served to appease the spirit of a young dead girl he had found years earlier in a canal. The dolls continue to hang in the trees along the banks of these peaceful canals, and visitors continue to eat up their bizarre history while floating along the vibrant banks of Xochimilco. I love this city.

a trip to cancún and playa del carmen with my sis and dad

Sat, 02 Jun 2012 12:23:44 -0500

the bluest water i have ever seen

the tallest pyramid on the yucatán: cobá

my monkey friend

sistas

snorkeling in cozumel

the ruins of tulum

a trip to cancún and playa del carmen with my sis and dad

feliz día de la madre

Thu, 24 May 2012 17:22:54 -0500

Mother’s Day is every May 10th in Mexico - not the third Sunday of every May. It is arguably (and I have had this bold statement confirmed by several Mexican sources), the second most important Holiday after Christmas in this country. We love our mothers here. May is actually filled with “Día de’s…” - Día del Albañil (Day of the Construction Worker), de la Maestra (Teacher), del Niño (Children), de los Estudiantes (Students), de los Perros (Dogs), etc. What’s most alarming is that it is normal to actually recognize these holidays (I mean, beyond learning that it’s the “National Day of World Peace” because of a Facebook post, the small print in your day planner, or a forwarded email from your liberal friend). These are actual well-known and celebrated Holidays that merit a day free from work. In fact, mothers get Mother’s Day off from work. And construction worker’s get the same for their holiday. And teachers… you get the picture.

Today, however, is not May 10th. It’s the third Sunday of May. Happy Mother’s Day, American Mothers!

semana santa

Thu, 29 Mar 2012 15:59:40 -0600

The entire country has a two week break starting tomorrow. I will be venturing to the states of Chiapas and Oaxaca. I’ll be back on April 14th. Feliz Semana Santa.

a confused, bittersweet, heart-wrenching, exciting, completely loco revelation:

Tue, 06 Mar 2012 11:50:00 -0600

what if i want to stay in mexico?

Photo

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 11:42:13 -0600

atlaco's most famous statue: mr. fabela

mi mamá

Centro Ceremonial Otomí

amigos

climbing to the top

living the altacomulco life

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 11:42:09 -0600

living the altacomulco life

(photos courtesy of Jackie Meinen) The Charreada (rodeo) of...

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 11:34:47 -0600

charros

a marlboro ad?

exhibit a

hat toss

(photos courtesy of Jackie Meinen)

The Charreada (rodeo) of Atlacomulco

The events are entirely different from what I am used to at the rodeos in Montana, Wyoming or Calgary. Horses dance; women in traditional dresses dance on the horses that are dancing; charros (cowboys) chase horses around the arena attempting to lasso their front two legs and violently whip them to the ground (see Exhibit A). When the crowd is pleased with the performance of a charro, they toss their hats out onto the dirt ground of the arena with the force of a graduation ceremony. It was a rough-around-the-edges rodeo with ill-groomed animals, beer for $1.50 a pop and live norteña music. We were most definitely the only non-locals present in a crowd of about 200 people (and let’s face it: I’m a half-local), so we stood out. The capitán in the arena (I’m unsure of his exact role, but he appeared to act like a referee and possessed clear authority) continued to wink at me and my fellow gringas (a good weekend for them to visit Atlacomulco). Eventually, he rode his horse over to the ledge to speak to us, offering for us to sit in the “area of honor” and then continued to bring us cold beer after whisky shot after cold beer. We remained seated where we were, but did not decline his insistance of free beverages. He then ordered his amigos to come sit with us, so as to “answer any of our questions about the event and explain the Mexican rodeo.” This was my first Mexican rodeo. It was absurd, but then again, so is my life here.

Cris’ 18th Cumpleaños A small section of my extended...

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 14:58:00 -0600

Cris’ 18th Cumpleaños

A small section of my extended family in Atlacomulco. Miranda’s face = my favorite.

the modern art displayed in the halls of my hotel in mexico...

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 22:24:56 -0600

a duck

a buck

a bighorn sheep

the modern art displayed in the halls of my hotel in mexico city: plastic, multi-colored, mounted, breasted animals.

a week in mexico city: teotiahuacán and the basilica de...

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 21:30:18 -0600

teotiahuacán

climbing one of the pyramids

liz, emilie, me, jackie

awkward group shot atop the pyramid

the basilica de guadalupe

the original image of the virgin

the basilica

pirámides de teotiahuacán

más de teotiahuacán

a week in mexico city: teotiahuacán and the basilica de guadalupe

living the mexican childhood

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 16:44:00 -0600

(December 10, 2011)

It was there, on a Sunday afternoon, leaning on a cold, rusted metal shopping cart, breathing in bleach cleaning fumes, listening to Mexican norteña music playing softly over the loudspeaker, squinting in the dull florescent lighting at package labels, standing on the cold, unfinished, cement floor of the grocery store. It was there, watching Mine rifle through a bin filled with pink, green, and yellow rubber gloves for 15 minutes, nodding my head in vague approvalas she held up several different glove options with a puzzled look on her face that read,

But what do you think of these ones? Are they better than the last?

It was there, yawning, scratching my red eyes burning from the pungent cleaning-section fumes, wondering what my family and friends were doing hundreds of miles away, wondering what I might be doing hundreds of miles away at 4:32pm on a Sunday afternoon.

It was there, after complimenting Mine’s french braid, and then realizing I had somehow just asked her to do my hair in a french braid the next day before school.

You like it, Ivie? Well, I’m going to get up early so I can do a special french braid in your hair tomorrow before you go to school.

It was there, frowning in pain, as she brushed my hair back tight, exposing what seemed to be my own receding hair line, and spraying more hairspray than I think I used at my own prom. It was there, gazing into the mirror at what looked like a dead animal lying flat on the top of my head, thanking Mine for the deed and time, and kissing her goodbye. It was there, entering school that morning, and proceeding immediately to the bathroom to run my fingers through my stiff hair in attempt to restore it to its natural state, in hopes of erasing any trace of the braid. It was there, realizing that I had just had by hair braided before school by my “mom,” lied to her about liking it, and was frantically undoing the braid before school that morning.

Tedious Sunday errands that kill an entire afternoon and getting my hair horrifically braided before school in the morning.

It was there I realized that I am living a Mexican childhood.

my relationship with atlacomulco

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 14:59:19 -0600

(December 1, 2011)

Our Facebook relationship would read: It’s complicated.

A few weeks ago, Mario and Karen told me that I was “far too direct” in the way I say things. “We skirt around the point here. You get to the point too quickly. It comes off as rude.” After I explained that I clearly meant no offense, and that they should throw me a bone because I’m attempting to come off as conversational in a language that’s not my own, Mario responded curtly, “But you came here to learn my culture. I don’t want to learn yours.”

I’m trying. I try every single day here. But there are setbacks like these that make me want to come home.

Later that afternoon, I sat at a table with Mine’s extended family. Her brother-in-law, Osnaldo, came by to give me a cuba (cocktail), tequila and fresca. I was mid-sentence in explaining something to Mine, and before I even had a chance to see the drink placed in front of me, Mario sharply interjected “Ivie, dile a mi tío gracías. No seas grosera.” (Ivie, tell me uncle ‘thank you.’ Don’t be rude.) I felt like a child. I immediately followed-up “I’m sorry; thanks a lot.” Osnaldo smiled. Mario avoided my eye contact. Hunched over his food, he glanced up at Juanita, the señora who helps with cooking and housework, and complained, “Juanes, why did you serve Ivie more mushrooms with her chicken than me?”. This was said in complete seriousness. I looked at Mario and joked “Mario, no seas un niño.” (Mario, don’t be a child.) He didn’t laugh. In fact, he later used this as an example of me being too direct. “You come off as rude,” he stated.

Later that evening, I sat in hot embaressment, as Mario continued to make sharp comments about the gringa in the room. “Ivie, what color is your hair in English again?” “Brunette,” I responded flatly. The boys broke out in laughter as Mario explained how he’d only heard that word in reference to pornography. “Could I find you on a brunette porn website?”. He continued to allude to me as the gringa desabrida (literal translation: bland American girl). I sat on the couch, surrounded by these boys laughing like hyenias as Mario continued to make stab after stab about my hair, my nationality, my eyes, my skin, my accent when I speak Spanish, just about everything that could make me feel entirely out of place. I wanted to scream and yell and run and leave. But I couldn’t. I sat there and tuned his insults out, shifting my attention to Dora the Explorer on the TV, and the two-year-old in the room watching the program wide-eyed as the “adults” smoked and drank the night away.

It’s good for me to feel out of place. It adds to a blossoming empathy.

I think this part of my identity - the ability to communicate graciously, understand language sublties, with an acute awareness in detecting when something is “off” with any given person - has been shed. It is certainly strange to shed a layer of personality that is so central to how I define myself. These definitions are being pushed by a new language, people, and context.

I sometimes find myself jealous of the Britts and Germans living as English language assistants in Mexico. That’s a true cultural exchange. What does it mean to be on a “cultural exchange” in Mexico when I’m from the United States? I’m supposed to “share my culture”? Mario’s words sum up my struggle perfectly: You came here to learn my culture. I don’t want to learn yours.

How can I blame him? Halloween commercialism vomits all over Mexican meaningful Day of the Dead remembrances. You need to know how to speak English to have any amount of success in this country. Images of Alabama’s latest legislation and federal proposals to build an electrified fence at the border dominate the media. And now I’m supposed to give presentations on Thanksgiving food and the origins of Halloween and fried chicken and the way we treat our immigrants? Oh wait, maybe I should skip that last part. I am proud to be an American, but I am also shameful in this context. I don’t want to feel apologetic for part of my identity. But I do want to make clear that I am aware that the land of the free can also be the land that rejects. We reject their visa applications everyday. We reject our very own based on arbitrary distinctions as to who gets to be defined as American and who does not. I understand the resentment Mario has chosen to direct at me.

Mario can’t find a job in his own country, and certainly doesn’t qualify for a visa to work in mine. I quit my job at Google and left my life in San Francisco to move to rural, poverty-stricken Mexico. This privilege is beyond alarming; it is unfair. He knows I can return to opportunity after getting a bite of his culture. Perhaps his behavior toward me is catharsis.

And then I have days when I walk outside and don’t want to be anywhere else. I want to be right here, in Atlacomulco, not even home. I mean, this is home right now. I have good and bad days, days when I want to leave, and days when I dread going back to the United States. Days when things are weird, and days when what was once bizarre is now completely normal. Days when I feel like Mexican cultural nuances are becoming part of my own perspective; like I feel like I’m meant to be here.

Atlacomulco is like a boyfriend. I’m allowed to fight with it and be angry at it and ignore it when I want. But at the end of the day, it’s my home right now. We’re close because I can have these authentic, visceral reactions and we then we can kiss and make up. It’s evolving and real. It’s complicated.

(November 29, 2011) an ode to ixtlahuaca, thanksgiving, a visit...

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 23:35:40 -0600

oh, we ate turkey. turkey with mole.

my thanksgiving dinner in mexico

carlos, martín, luz maría, and armando

napa, ca fall colors

my long, lost american girlfriends

cheering the msu bobcats (good effort)

(November 29, 2011)

an ode to ixtlahuaca, thanksgiving, a visit to the u.s.a, and a car jacking

ixtlahuaca

Every Thursday, I leave the Atlacomulco bubble to travel to a surrounding pueblo about 20 minutes away: Ixtlahuaca (pronounced eeks-tla-wok-a). Ixtlahuaca is the ying to my Atlacomulco yang. They complement each other. For me, at least. The towns actually have a timeless rivalry, made abundantly clear whenever I mention I have affiliations with one town to someone from the other. Mario tells me he won’t go to Ixtlahuaca because he “doesn’t want any trouble.” The sentiments I hear are very wild west - a “you best be getting along now” attitude towards those people who live in a town 20 minutes away.

People in Ixtlahuaca are salt of the earth. It’s a rough-around-the-edges pueblo that preserves tradition over fostering modernity. Atlacomulco tends to get a fresa stereotype (yes, that literally translates to strawberry, but is slangy for stuck-up). Whereas Ixtlahuaca is still primarily made of dirt roads home to cars, donkeys, people on bicycles selling tamales, etc., Atlacomulco appears to place more emphasis on commercialization. The relatively new Mega superstore has put several single-function stores out of business (tortilla stores, broom stores, meat stores, you name it). Also, a new contemporary shopping area was recently displayed for the first time in downtown Atlaco. It features large bronze fountains placed amongst a few new shoe stores and pharmacies. Jagged metal structures line the periphery, likely made to give the area a modern, artsy edge. It certainly is juxtaposed sandwiched between a single-lot chicken shop and a tortilla shop. Women in miniskirts and plunging neckline t-shirts smile and entice passerby to enter the new 50 yard shopping area, handing out balloons and posing for pictures. Loud music blasts into the streets from large speakers. Rumor has it that Peña Nieto funded the shopping area. I have to admit, if he continues on his path to presidency, Atlacomulco will be hooked up. And Ixtlahuaca will probably not be…

Anyways, the rivalry is what I gather from the locals. I’m Switzerland here - I’ve got both Atlacomulco and Ixtlahuaca in my blood.

As for my work at La Escuela Normal de Ixtlahuaca, I teach with three different maestros - three classes at two hours each. My Ixtlahuaca school days look like this:

Maestra Feli. We teach girls studying to be preschool English teachers in the 19 to 21 year-old age range. Maestra Feli opens each class with a meditative practice: We shut our eyes and she constructs a narrative about the universe. FIlled with rich imagery, she asks the girls to channel all their love and positive energy into their country to help with those living in less-than-fortunate circumstances, such as extreme poverty or as narcos. She talks about the “swirling purple” we all have inside our bodies to be channeled towards wherever we choose. She then tells the girls to open their eyes, and she starts class: “Ok, let’s move onto reported speech and commands. Open your book to page…” I love Maestra Feli. At times, she holds me after class to “help me get in touch with my energy.” She tells me that she can feel the energy of the “little Ivie from Montana,” and that I should be in touch with this side of me. She tells me I should remember that I now have a side of me that is “Ivie in Mexico,” and that I have a strong family here. I realize that most of this sounds fumado (high), but I like it. In my novel of Mexican characters, Feli may be the most colorful.

Maestro Armando. We teach the teachers at the Escuela Normal in Ixtlahuaca who want to learn English, but speak hardly any. It’s a bit awkward for Armando as some of the teachers we are instructing are actually his superiors. Makes for plenty of uncomfortable power dynamics to emerge within the classroom. I prefer this class least.

Maestro Carlos. Carlos is also my tutor (my go to person in Ixtlahuaca), so I am closest with him. He drives me to and from Ixtlahuaca, and we always grab a beer together to talk about the world’s problems after class every Thursday. We teach preschool teachers together, who would like to learn some English to teach their little ones. Accordingly, I teach them songs singing about colors, or days of the week, or animals. It’s a challenge for me.

thanksgiving

I was in Ixtlahuaca on Thanksgiving. My first Thanksgiving without family and without my country. I designed a powerpoint presentation for my students that included photos of every one of my Thankgiving dinners since the advent of the digital camera. Rehashing the details of “what thanksgiving means” to my students made me even more nostalgic than I would be otherwise. Morning runs, family, friends, spiked hot apple cider, football, wine, cinnamon roles, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, turkey, christmas songs, snow, giving thanks, family dysfunction, my sister, pumpkins, christmas movies, candles, and I kept going. They understood it was important to me.

My students in Maestra Feli’s class shouted “Happy Thanksgiving!” when I walked into the classroom, and then proceeded to line up individually to give me a hug and their handmade cards wishing me a Happy Thanksgiving in Mexico. “You’ll always have family here!”; “Smile!”; “We love you!”; some of the cards read. It was like Thanksgiving was my Birthday. The Director and all the school’s big dogs then took me to a nice restaurant in town - the only restaurant serving turkey that day (really something that’s only eaten on Christmas here). The turkey was a Mexican rendition. I ate turkey with mole and cheesecake for dessert. At home that evening, Mine had prepared a mini Thanksgiving feast for our cena. The table was decorated with candles, Christmas tablemats, and a gamut of delectable treats. She even went out to buy wine glasses for the special occasion. We munched on olives, ham, crackers, cheese, and salad, while toasting with our Mexican wine, Sangre de Christo (Christ’s blood), and giving thanks. It was obviously the first time Mine and Cris had participated in the tradition, but Mine said she would like to bring it back next year, even with me gone. We made a deal: I’m taking Day of the Dead back to the States and she’s carrying Thanksgiving on here. Talk about a literal cultural exchange.

a car jacking

The evening following Thanksgiving, I went out for dinner with a friend, David (the same David I met in Acapulco who had recently returned from working in the United States). We went to an overpriced restaurant named Texas Steakhouse. On a Saturday night at 9:00pm, we were the only patrons. This was the first odd observation of the evening. About halfway through dinner, I let my eyes wonder over David’s left shoulder to the door, where a man in about his 30’s with early onset greying hair stumbled into the restaurant. He seemed to sway when standing up and I caught his eye staring over at me far too often for comfort. Although he felt “off,” so do many things in my often anxiety-driven perspective here, so I said nothing.

As we finished our meal, David scanned the window in front of us, sat up straight, and stoicly questionted “Where’s my car?”. I jolted up and scurried to look out the dark window. The parking lot was empty.

As it turns out, the owner of the establishment we were patronizing drunkenly entered the restaurant, muttered to the cook that he was going to go see “table dancers,” broke into the only truck in the parking lot, David’s, jimmied the ignition, drove off toward the strip club, but instead crashed and totaled the vehicle. He wound up in the hospital in critical condition. There’s more: David doesn’t have a bank account; he prefers to store his money in a box underneath front car seat. He had $17,000 stored there.

No, this wasn’t a dramatic Mexican telenovela; this was my Friday night.

To David’s great fortune, after receiving his totaled car, everything was where he had left it, including his stashed cash. To his misfortune, his car was totaled. The owner of the restaurant, Don Julio, stayed at the hospital over night, but was able to go home the following day. Although the criminal situation appears painstakenling simple: Man steals car. Man drunkenly crashes stolen car., David still doesn’t have a case. Don Julio is a powerful man in town, and as the Mexican saying goes: Donde hay dinero, baile el perro (where’s there’s money, the dog dances). So, David asked me to testify explaining that I had seen Don Julio enter the restaurant drunkenly that evening. I figure publically testifying against a powerful, rich, questionably-involved-in-the-narco-trade business owner is my fastest ticket to getting involved in the predicament I am trying hardest to avoid in this country. Alas, I declined. And poor David has a truck that needs at least $6,000 worth of repair without the appropriate governmental infrastructure to hold the criminal accountable.

This Thanksgiving, I was thankful for our criminal justice system.

(December 18, 2011) december in atlacomulco

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 23:09:01 -0600

my class teaching english teachers

breaking the piñata during a posada

vero's visit to Atlaco

mario's birthday party!

atlaco's town mural (notice peña nieto)

my first lucha libre

it was action-filled

i bought a luchador doll as a souvenir

(December 18, 2011)

december in atlacomulco

a long, lost blog entry

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 23:56:08 -0600

An aside from my general blog content: The following was taken from a blog I started in August of 2009, but never wrote in again. Amazing how much has changed (and not changed) over the past two and a half years…

I saw the movie Julie and Julia last night - quite possibly the worst cinematic experience I’ve ever had. I had a rushed, whispered discussion with my friends as to whether or not we should leave about forty-five minutes into the movie, in hopes we might still catch the later showing of Inglorious Bastards. Alas, we remained seated, agreeing that there was some entertainment value in giggling at the horrendous script and god-awful, self-obsessed protagonist of Julie and Julia.

What a rant. My point is this: Despite the fact that the movie was rudimentary in plot development and acting (besides Meryll Streep; let’s face it, she’s never below par), I found some sort of obscure inspiration. I want to write. This is a story of a quarter-life crisis.

Nearing the final semester of my undergraduate college career with degrees that comfortably fit in the ever-so-lucrative category of “liberal arts”, I find myself lost. Great. I’ve made the most of what I’ve done in college - the grades, the contacts, the extra-curriculars, etc. The problem rests in the fact that despite these successes, I’m about to dip my feet into the crowded, dismal reality of the contemporary American job market. The job market that mandates that if your highest level of education is a Bachelor’s degree, then well, by God, it better be reflecting a hard science background. If you have chosen anything “softer”, then you better start studying for the LSAT. The Wall Street Journal recently posted an article explaining that Masters Degrees augmenting a social sciences background (I’m talking to all of you Political Science, Psychology, Anthropology, Modern Languages, Humanity people), don’t actually ensure an increase in pay. That is, the only guaranteed post-graduate degrees for higher salary are Law and Medical School. Thank you, Wall Street Journal. That’s not to say I am only seeking higher education based on increased salary, but it does have an indication as to whether or not I’d like to double my student loans for a Master’s if it merely lands me the same job I could get with my B.A..

FURTHERMORE, a New York Times blogger recently explained it’s not only what your degree is that bodes well or poorly on future pay, but also where you obtain it from. For example, Dartmouth grads will, generally speaking, make more than Harvard grads, who will make more than Yale grads, who will beat out Georgetown grads. So, there’s even a hierarchy in the elite-of-the-elite as far as private schools go. What does this mean for public University graduates? The same thing it means for those with aspirations of working in social work or education. We won’t be making money. Our schools don’t reflect a high enough socioeconomic background, and our degrees aren’t rewarded by a capitalist-driven economy.

In all of this mess rests my quarter-life angst. There have to be more options than what this generation of college graduates has been witness to as they earn their eagerly-anticipated diplomas. We’ve been the catalyst of so much recent technological and political momentum. We are the drivers of Facbook, MySpace and Twitter. We created the market for the Huffington Post, Slate and Politico. We organized and voted in higher than ever numbers for a President that reflected our need for change politics. I don’t want to hit the awkward transitional phase of moving home to the parents, only to check Craigslist and Idealist everyday for scarce positions, (especially scarce in the places we want to live: Seattle, Portland, Austin and San Francisco - thanks again to the Wall Street Journal for a recent study that outlined it is those particular cities that have the highest unemployment rates in the country).

I will write my way through my last semester of college, until my 22-year-old self is able to find the remedy for floundering in this sea of quarter-life, post-graduate options… or lack thereof.

Feliz Año Nuevo. As a tribute to the New Year, I have decided to...

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 18:37:18 -0600

Feliz Año Nuevo.

As a tribute to the New Year, I have decided to publish the many drafts I have left to gather dust in my draft box. Because they were written last year, I’ve attempted to back-date them to their appropriate time; however Tumblr has done away with this feature (why?!), so please take note of the date at the top of entries for their timing (physical order no longer necessarily indicates correct chronology). Over my Holiday Break, I stumbled across a blog that I started and failed to maintain two and a half years ago, when I was still in college. I wrote it as a therapeutic rant before graduating, with the intention of never sharing it. It was left untouched and unread, floating in cyber space for two and a half years. Upon re-reading it, I found myself still relating. I’ve decided to give it the sharing it deserves. See below.

Another great start to the New Year is an online magazine’s, Shatter the Looking Glass, recent feature of one of my blog entries, An American Dream.

Above, I’ve posted my New Year’s Baby. Actually, it represents Jesus Christ, but I think it also represents a good start to the New Year. On January 6th, Mexicans Celebrate el Día de Los Reyes (Day of the Kings), which commemorates the Three Wise Men’s gifts to baby Jesus. In many families, more gifts are exchanged on this day than on Christmas, itself. Although I was still in the United States for this celebration, the students in one of my classes made sure I did not miss out on the tradition. They brought a Rosca de Reyes (Crown of Kings), a circular loaf of sweet bread made to look like a crown. The bread has pieces of fruit decorating the top, and something very special inside: a couple of tiny plastic baby Jesus’ baked inside the bread. The tradition plays out as each person cuts him/herself a slice of this bread, one person at a time. They then must cut the slice open in front of everyone to reveal if baby Jesus appears. If you are lucky enough to have the plastic doll baked into your slice of bread, you are obligated to host a small party and cook tamales on February 2nd, when Mexicans celebrate the Dia de la Candalería (Day of Candles), which is, in essence, another excuse for a Mexican gathering of friends, family, food, and party (the words of my students, not my own). They don’t stop at New Year’s. I am also told this is the last Holiday celebration… for awhile.

My slice of bread had the baby Jesus. Happy New Year.