Thanks, but I can pick up my own pen.....

(If you feel so inclined: read this blog while listening to "Anthem" by Superchick)

“Well, now Elenita can get married.”

Yesterday, I had to give a presentation in my Club. It was about my family, city, school, state, country, etc. Fun stuff. I was supposed to make food for everyone, so I baked chocolate chip cookies and made stuffed zucchini. Apparently they passed some sort of universal taste test. My host dad was the first one to inform me that I was allowed to get married. At the meeting, my Club President, Counselor, and several Rotarians informed me of the same fact, individually and at different times. Everyone had the same timing and laughed at the exact same point. Obviously it was a joke, but it got me thinking. If I had burned the cookies would I have received: “Nice try dear, but it looks like you are going to be an old maid now.”?

This seems like a good time to bring up gender roles. Here in Tabasco there are many unspoken, yet rigid expectations for both men and women. There are also (what I interpret as) blaring discrepancies pertaining to the idea of “respect”. I´ve been here long enough now that I think I can explain this moderately well. I´m just going to write a bunch of paragraphs about difference things that I´m seeing- it´s going to jump around a bit, but hopefully by the end you´ll have an idea of what it´s like to live here.

My host mom is a doctor, specifically a pediatric orthodontist. She works two jobs. In the morning she is the first one to wake up, she makes us lunches to bring to school and is the first one out the door, before 7 o´clock. Around 4pm she picks up my brothers from school, comes home with them, cooks again and goes to her other job. She comes home between 8-9 pm when she cooks again, and usually tries to get to bed before midnight. Somewhere in there she eats (I think) and has some time to use the computer and talk to the rest of the family a little, she also spends quite a bit of time daily doing my eight-year-old brother´s homework, he needs a lot of help. She is SUPER overworked.

If you´re like me, you´re thinking: “Why don´t the other members of the family help her? Elaine- why aren’t you cooking some of those meals????” The answer: she is the mother. And that´s what mothers do. It´s simple, universal, and unquestioned. The first time I asked about chores they actually laughed at me. I usually wash dishes, and I do my own laundry and keep my room clean, but other than that I am pretty much a useless lump in terms of housework. Mamá does it all. Well, most of it. We have a “señora” (like all wealthy families) who comes three times a week to do laundry and wash the floors/bathrooms. But that´s going to have to be another post- I have too much to say about that social norm. Anyway- my point? Women who work a lot outside of the house are still expected to do “Stay-At-Home-Mom” type things. This is true for all of the adult women I know, and most likely the cause of those dark circles under the eyes.

So if that´s what adult women are doing, what sort of social expectations are there for the teenagers I go to school with? From what I can tell, most girls spend a lot of time looking pretty. I don´t mean that they´re ditzy and sit around all day, I mean they spend WAY more time than I am used to on hair and makeup. I have seen girls in the school bathrooms putting on fake eyelashes….for CLASS. Glitter hair spray, sparkly eye-makeup, lip-gloss and foundation on person at all times. I think the real reason for uniforms is actually a time-saving attempt on behalf of the female student-body: based off of what I see at parties, I can´t imagine what would happen if everyone picked out their own outfits for school daily. Now, obviously they are complex people like everyone I know. I want to stay away from the “us” and “them” mentality, it´s just a pretty glaring difference.

I´m not sure, but I think the boys might be spending just as much time looking nice. Most boys have hair with that …”crispy” looking texture of a bit too much gel. The boys also tend to sit in groups, and several guys in my class always carry soccer balls with them. Mind you- they are not allowed to DO anything with them, and there are places where they could store them, but no. “Hello, my name is I-Play-Fútbol”. I don´t find this to be overly impressive, but apparently it works and is even “SO HOT!!!!!!!!!!” in the eyes of some of my peers.

When walking with a guy-friend, I generally try to avoid closed doors as often as possible. Every male here has been programmed to race ahead, open the door and gesture for you to pass with a sweeping hand-motion that makes me feel like I´m in a Jane Austen novel. At first it was fun, but now I just feel super high-maintenance. On a scale of “Oh-That´s-Nice!” to “I-KNOW-How-To-Open-A-Door- Thankyou” I find myself leaning more towards to latter. Of course, that´s only on the inside. I actually smile, say thank you, and if possible, demurely avert my eyes- Why? Because that´s what girls do.

There´s a big difference between that sense of almost smothering chivalry, and the way men act when they don´t know you. I still can´t walk around without getting really obnoxious commentary on the streets. It makes me cringe and want to be invisible.  But at the same time, I know that that man in the truck who just whistled at me would gladly carry my groceries if he saw me having trouble at the store. Are you starting to see the discrepancies?

Everything from milk cartons to dog food packages are covered with images of half-naked women, while the more “serious” commercials involving things like insurance and cars show professional men in business suits. The man is the head of the house, end of story. Sports are divided into “girl” and “boy” and not questioned. I feel like the gender “norms” of my past life are actually walls here.

So, to conclude this ramble: I learn a lot from watching how my aunt raises my baby cousin. He´s two years old. The other day I was painting my nails with my 11-year-old cousin, when he toddled his way over, wanting to join in. My aunt came in from the other room immediately and sat him down to explain “Nails are a girl thing- to look pretty! Girls are supposed to look pretty. Boys are strong. You are a boy, a strong boy!” Suddenly it all came into perspective: What if everyone here had spent their childhoods being told that- in various circumstances/examples? Of course the girls spend hours getting ready to go out! It made sense!

But then I looked at my aunt- a single mom working two jobs, maintaining a house and raising her baby. Honestly, I don´t care about “social norms”:

I think girls can be pretty AND strong.

The Fifth Sense

I´ve never been an especially touchy person. My family is laughing right now and making comments about dramatic understatements and the century. Throughout my childhood, I was the sort of kid who needed warning before a hug, and got flinchy when someone tried to brush my hair. I don´t think I had legit sensory issues or anything; I just needed mental preparation before physical contact, that´s normal-right? …Ok-so maybe I had some issues…  Anyway, I relaxed a lot during Conserve; got less twitchy, and can now enjoy hugging/being hugged like a normal human being. (Necessary Background Info: CHECK)

I don´t remember the name of the first person I met at school. What I DO remember is that this person put his arm around my shoulder and with his face inches away from mine said: “Hello, I´m (probablysomethinglikejuan). Where are you from? What´s your name? What do you like about México?” I kind of blanked. So much eye-contact! So much touching! I was already stressed out by my lack of Spanish and the prospect of kissing every person I would meet and now this strange boy was expecting a coherent response? I think I eventually managed to translate the “imelenaimnot  frommexicoilikeitinmexicowhenpeopledontsitinmydesk” in my head into something more socially acceptable. But just barely: case in point? I haven´t talk to that guy since and still don´t know his name.

They warned me about this. That at first it would be really awkward to adapt to the different ideas about physical contact and personal space. No one was trying to make me uncomfortable or act weird, it´s just a cultural difference. I KNEW this in my head, but it´s another thing entirely to re-train your initial responses to things. Life lessons like “Don´t kiss strangers” have been sort of ingrained in me, and a plane ride can´t instantly “correct” that.

Actually (and unexpectedly), the cheek-kiss thing hasn´t really fazed me at all. I got used to it quickly, and it´s a nice way to greet someone. It´s also so OBVIOUSLY different that it was easy to remember. I think it´s actually harder to adjust to the more subtle, almost subconscious differences, like eye contact.  Those are the ones I always catch myself on.

At first, when trying to talk to someone, I could work my way across a room as we both tried to politely create a “comfortable” communication space: I shifted onto a back leg, they leaned forward, I took a little half step away, and so on and so on. For me, their “comfortable” was like sitting in the front row of a movie theatre, but they felt like I was shouting across the room.

Obviously everyone here has a different comfort level, space wise. I´m not going to try to say that this entire country acts the same: I have one uncle who is really concerned with germs, and so he doesn´t hug or kiss. Everyone knows this and is just shakes hands with him- no big deal. It´s also not like you greet every person you run into on the street. The “strangers” I talked about earlier are people I was introduced to. I think, in general, that of the five love languages Physical Touch would be at the top of a lot of people´s lists, but I don´t want to exaggerate.

Somehow, I´ve gotten used to it. Of the changes I´ve been noticing in myself, this is one of the most dramatic, yet also one that has happened very slowly and subtly.  It´s like the smell of my host family´s house: The house doesn´t smell bad at all- it was just different. For weeks, every day I would come home after school and think: “This does not smell like my house. This smells like México. I feel homesick.” (Attitude problems much?) But as I got more connected at school and with my family, I entered the house thinking about other things and forgot that it smelled “wrong”. It wasn´t until October that I remembered again that the smell used to make me homesick. That´s a silly example, but I think it´s basically the same process.

I now find myself holding onto people´s arms when I talk to them, braiding other people´s hair without warning, and comfortable sharing desk seats. Ok- I might need a little more time to develop the “Why-sit-next-to-when-you-can-sit-on?” attitude, but we´re getting there. The point is: if my version of “adaption” here is forgetting which things used to make me uncomfortable, I can live with that. When I compare how I saw this place in August to how I see it now, it´s like going from black and white to color. I´m more than willing to change, because if that´s 3.5 months, I can´t imagine how I´ll feel about this city in another seven.

Color me....right.

I had a great kindergarten teacher. Really. From pulling teeth to reading aloud to throwing 100th-day-of-school parties: this lady had it down. We all loved her, but knew there was one issue she was very strict about. When coloring, we had to use the correct colors. It did not matter that we were 5 and 6: Squirrels are not green and trees are not purple, and if we colored them this way, we were told to redo it. I´m still not really sure why, but it´s something that has stuck with me.

I´ve found myself thinking about that coloring rule a lot these past months. Because, you see, it is one thing to read about racial diversity/lack thereof and it is quite another to be the only blonde ponytail in a classroom of 45.

I am not dealing with discrimination/bullying at all. I have some great friends, and the fact that I can speak Spanish pretty well now helps a lot. I don´t feel like people are treating badly….still…..It is surreal to stick out like this. I already said that there isn´t much (read: any) Tourism appeal to my city, and so there aren´t very many foreigners here. There are a few European exchangers and an American too, but I still attract a lot of attention walking. I also attract attention in Restaurants. And stores. And school. And, ok, you get the point. This is something that I have literally NEVER experienced before.

Growing up in the Midwest, I have been surrounded by pale skin and blue eyes my whole life. Now I find myself referred to/called by my hair or skin color on a daily basis. Gringa, Guerra (sp?), Blanca, Rubia…. At least there´s never any confusion who´s being referred to.

You see, I have a skin tone that inspires self-congratulatory high-fives amongst sun screen manufacturers. While I was still living in the U.S. I got an endless stream of comments. One morning last Spring, I had this conversation with my math teacher in front of the class:

“WOW Elaine, are you sick?”

           “Nope. Feel pretty good.”

“Are you sure? You just look SO pale.”

          “This is my skin color.”

“I think it´s because your shirt is a bright color and then it´s just…..WHITE.”

              “Can I sit down now?”

Another teacher once told a story, in which the blizzard was as “White as Elaine….(pregnant pause)….´s sweatshirt”. Before I left for Mexico, back in Grand Rapids, I had a Mexican inbound inform me that I was very white “Even for an American”. You´re starting to imagine how I stand out here. This is one reason why I am not considering dying my hair. I don´t think I´d be an especially sparkly vampire.

It´s funny, but at the same time, it frustrates me to know that 8 months from now (Yes, I´ll still be here) when my Spanish is near perfect, and I´m thinking like a Mexican, people on the street will still pick me out as an “Extranjera”. They will still ask if I´m lost. I will still look like I don´t belong here. My accent won´t ever counteract my skin color and that´s something I have no control over.

So deep down, I know there are whole countries full of people who look like me. I know that this is one year of my life, and it isn´t going to kill me. I know that I´m learning some great first-hand lessons about race, and the people who are really important (My friends and host family) are the ones whose opinions matter.

Nonetheless, there are still times when after a really long day, I look in the mirror and can´t help but think that if Mrs. Schroeder was here, she would give me a “Nice Effort” sticker and tell me to try again. The coloring just isn´t quite right.