mi chiquito
I'm writing, finally, about Mexico, while watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation and having Turtle bat at my ponytail with her now-clawless paws. I've sat down at my computer --hesitating-- so many times this week, afraid, I think, that words would be too weak to bother with. And then I realize that words are sort of all I have and so, you know, here goes.
A group of college kids from my church went down to Mexico for a week to do mission work in an orphanage in Piedros Negros. Our work was nothing fancy, really; we didn't build them a new orphanage or buy them loads of shiny, Fischer Price play sets (we did, however, break one of their play sets -- it's not a good idea for two adultlets to sit on a swing set which is rotting at the same time). We did a little painting, a little cleaning, and a whole lot of loving. How old-fashioned, right? To just love. I mean, no money involved, no electronic presents or plastic gift cards. Just, plainly, love. Hugging, holding, kissing, listening, and letting warm, sticky little children fall asleep in your lap. It's a lost art, feeling needed. It feels like gold.
I think about my little boy, Meno, still. All the time. He's ten years old, and one of the most beautiful, affectionate children I've ever met. We had an immediate connection. We talked and played and he laughed at my mangled Spanish. Every day at lunch, Meno would wave madly at me from one of the two seats he'd spread his body across, reserved for the two of us. Then, as we ate, he'd dare me to match the amount of jalapeno peppers or hot sauce he stuffed in his mouth. There must be something so funny about white people crying, mouths full, at the lunch table. Though my tongue is still a bit raw, I think it was worth it.
And there is definitely something funny about white people dancing. We all went to a rap concert together one night, and, naturally, we Americans started dancing a bit. The next day (and the day after, and the day after), Meno would break out into dancing impressions of us. He'd wave his hands over his head and sway, the way a Mormon school teacher might dance, and all the Mexican children would laugh laugh laugh.
I've wanted to visit Mexico since I was a kid, when my skin would turn a deep, deep brown during the long summers. So, I finally went, and you'd think, after wantingwanting for so long, it might be anti-climactic. It wasn't, though, that's the thing. When I think about the trip, it comes back to me in flashes. Even while I was there, experiencing Mexico in real time, it happened in flashes, neat little brackets of time, counter what I'd imagined (one long, slow slur of time punctuated by Margaritas and beautiful Mexican men). I dwell on each one of the flashes. Especially the flash filled with Mexican men.
I miss it. I have thought, over and over and over, of Meno. On the two hour drive back to San Antonio, to the airport, I sat in the back of our rental van and looked out at the hundreds of handfuls of stars, licked and stuck like postage stamps in the suddenly tired American sky. I thought about Meno, saying goodbye to him, and felt a hurt too deep for tears. I felt dry on the inside. I thought of hugging Meno goodbye, looking down and seeing his tears drop -- one, two -- making damp dots on his bright orange shirt. Thought of him asking, face buried in my stomach, if I'd be his Mami, thought of how I felt at that moment, thought of how it was worse than I've ever felt in my whole entire life, because I was going back to my cushy American life and leaving him there, and I couldn't hug him anymore and I couldn't be his Mami and I had no idea how the hell to explain any of this, so I just hugged him back and cried myself, right onto his orange shirt, too.
I have so much more to say and this is already so long. It figures. But I loved it. So much to think about.
A group of college kids from my church went down to Mexico for a week to do mission work in an orphanage in Piedros Negros. Our work was nothing fancy, really; we didn't build them a new orphanage or buy them loads of shiny, Fischer Price play sets (we did, however, break one of their play sets -- it's not a good idea for two adultlets to sit on a swing set which is rotting at the same time). We did a little painting, a little cleaning, and a whole lot of loving. How old-fashioned, right? To just love. I mean, no money involved, no electronic presents or plastic gift cards. Just, plainly, love. Hugging, holding, kissing, listening, and letting warm, sticky little children fall asleep in your lap. It's a lost art, feeling needed. It feels like gold.
I think about my little boy, Meno, still. All the time. He's ten years old, and one of the most beautiful, affectionate children I've ever met. We had an immediate connection. We talked and played and he laughed at my mangled Spanish. Every day at lunch, Meno would wave madly at me from one of the two seats he'd spread his body across, reserved for the two of us. Then, as we ate, he'd dare me to match the amount of jalapeno peppers or hot sauce he stuffed in his mouth. There must be something so funny about white people crying, mouths full, at the lunch table. Though my tongue is still a bit raw, I think it was worth it.
And there is definitely something funny about white people dancing. We all went to a rap concert together one night, and, naturally, we Americans started dancing a bit. The next day (and the day after, and the day after), Meno would break out into dancing impressions of us. He'd wave his hands over his head and sway, the way a Mormon school teacher might dance, and all the Mexican children would laugh laugh laugh.
I've wanted to visit Mexico since I was a kid, when my skin would turn a deep, deep brown during the long summers. So, I finally went, and you'd think, after wantingwanting for so long, it might be anti-climactic. It wasn't, though, that's the thing. When I think about the trip, it comes back to me in flashes. Even while I was there, experiencing Mexico in real time, it happened in flashes, neat little brackets of time, counter what I'd imagined (one long, slow slur of time punctuated by Margaritas and beautiful Mexican men). I dwell on each one of the flashes. Especially the flash filled with Mexican men.
I miss it. I have thought, over and over and over, of Meno. On the two hour drive back to San Antonio, to the airport, I sat in the back of our rental van and looked out at the hundreds of handfuls of stars, licked and stuck like postage stamps in the suddenly tired American sky. I thought about Meno, saying goodbye to him, and felt a hurt too deep for tears. I felt dry on the inside. I thought of hugging Meno goodbye, looking down and seeing his tears drop -- one, two -- making damp dots on his bright orange shirt. Thought of him asking, face buried in my stomach, if I'd be his Mami, thought of how I felt at that moment, thought of how it was worse than I've ever felt in my whole entire life, because I was going back to my cushy American life and leaving him there, and I couldn't hug him anymore and I couldn't be his Mami and I had no idea how the hell to explain any of this, so I just hugged him back and cried myself, right onto his orange shirt, too.
I have so much more to say and this is already so long. It figures. But I loved it. So much to think about.