Un Dia con Raymundo …

Hey, it’s already Wednesday and I haven’t written about Monday yet?  Last week I had four classmates, one American, one Dane and two Canadians.  The Canadians left on Sunday, so I knew my class would be very small on Monday.  Well, it was smaller than I expected.  I arrived at school only to find that a) my other classmates had chosen not to show up for the day and b) Andrés was being moved to a different class.  I was a little surprised to be the only student, but more concerned to find I had no teacher.  Well, not exactly no teacher, but that my new teacher, Marisol, wouldn’t arrive until Tuesday.

But then … Raymundo said, “Oh, Stacie, if it’s ok with you, I will teach you today, and you can start with Marisol tomorrow.”

(Oh, if it’s ok with me?  You mean me, the woman who’s been admiring you from afar for the last week?  Me?  Yeah, I think it’s ok with me to have you tutor me privately for four hours.  Yeah, I think I can manage.  And this Marisol?  Maybe she can skip the rest of the week, eh?)

So here are some things I realize after class with Raymundo:

1. I would be making soooo much more progress if I had signed up for individual classes!  I thought I’d enjoy being in a group, getting to talk with several people instead of shouldering the whole class on my own.  Who was I kidding?  I’m not a good sharer, and it’s been more than a little frustrating to have to wait for everyone else to figure out what’s going on so we can continue (yes, I am that obnoxious! … but it’s also true that I’m the strongest student in the class … how could I not be when one classmate skips to go scuba diving and another is emailing her friends and family back home during lessons?).  Monday, even with the long stretches of casual conversation that we had in between learning new tenses, I covered more material than in three days last week!  Yeah, so next time?  Private lessons.  Punto.
2. Spanish has way more tenses than I was prepared for.  Way more.  Not that I thought it should just have three or anything, but there really are a lot.  We haven’t even hit the imperative yet.  And don’t talk to me about the subjunctive!
3. Raymundo is even cuter up close and personal than he is when I just wave into the office on my way in and out of school.
4. I need to be practicing talking more.  Learning the tenses isn’t so hard.  That’s why we got through so much material on Monday.  But remembering how to put them together, remembering the different conjugations — which one uses ‘haber’ in the imperfect, which one uses it in the future and all that — is the thing that slows me down.  So I need a lot of practice.  Good thing I have Martín to talk to when I get home .

Tuesday, my wayward classmates had returned, and we had to go back and start working through everything I did on Monday with Raymundo … and we didn’t finish going through that stuff until the end of class today … so that’s two days’ work I’ve missed.  Feh.

So that’s a little annoying, but it’s cool.  I’ve learned a lot, and I’ll continue to learn a lot, and I really like Marisol, and it was good to review the work — especially with the fun games Marisol had for us.  If I do this again, it’s got to be one-on-one work, though.  My Skype lessons and my day with Raymundo proved that to me.

Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water …

I’ve been debating whether or not to include negative stuff in my vacation posts … but after Monday’s memoir, maybe the restriction’s off.

Of course you know this has to do with my never-ending theme of how people respond to my blackness. But it’s not about Mexican people’s responses to me. No. I’m thinking about how Americans here respond to me.

Forgive me, but haven’t black people been in the States long enough to no longer be a big surprise to white people? Clearly, however, the idea of black people being able to afford vacations in the same places — and in the same hotels no less — as white people is a bit of a shock. That’s the first category of white-person-from-the-States that I’m encountering. They see me stepping off the elevator or walking up the stairs to the main building or getting some help from the concierge and they look completely amazed. (They must be perpetually amazed, however, because there are actually quite a lot a black people in my hotel. All that shock and awe must be eating up their vacations.) I am, of course, being kind to assume that they are simply surprised to find that I can take the same kind of vacation they can. The looks I’ve seen on some people’s faces say a bit more. Something like, “I thought I left you people back home. What are you doing here?” Yeah. Sorry. We’re actually allowed to travel. Get over it.

There’s a secondary set of this category. They’re the people who just decide that I must be from somewhere else. I can’t possibly be American, after all, because here I am in their Mayan Riviera hotel. I must be from … I don’t know … Europe or somewhere. People keep walking up to me and tentatively asking in broken Spanish whether or not I speak English. Right.

The next category of my countrymen is far less pleasant, but in some ways I like encountering them more. They give me the opportunity to call them on their racism whereas my interactions with people in the first category are all silent, all eye contact.

These people are the ones who assume that I am there to serve them. How many people have asked me for drinks or told me about spills in their rooms or in the elevator? How many have told me they can’t find their towel cards or wanted to know what time lunch ends at the Hacienda restaurant? Yeah. Because I’m wearing one of the uniforms of the hotel staff. Or no, because I definitely look like a Mexican person. Or no, because … well because … Oh, right. Because I’m black. That’s it. I’m black so I must be there to bring you a towel or help your child figure out how to use the rinse-off shower by the beach. Right. Of course.

As I said, I actually prefer these people. They ask me something and I tell them I have no idea. They express surprise and a bit of disapproval that I’m not more obsequious, more sorry that I don’t have the answer, more ready to go find someone that does. Our conversations go something like this:

“You don’t know who I should ask?”

“Why would you think I would know?”

“What?”

“Am I wearing a uniform?”

“What?”

“Do I look Mexican to you?”

“What?”

“Why do you assume I work here?”

… some random sputtering for a few seconds … “Well … but you … I just thought … ” … a little more sputtering and then a rally in which they pull themselves up and try to do something like look down their noses at me, which is hard because I’m taller than most of them … “Are you saying you won’t help me?”

“I’m saying you’ve made a mistake, that you saw my skin and thought I must work here because where you come from you’re used to seeing black people as servants, not equals.” I hold up my wrist and point to the bracelet that marks me as a guest. “Surprise! We’re not in your country right now.”

“Are you accusing me –”

“Are you saying you didn’t just ask me to clean up the beer spill in your room?”

“But that doesn’t mean … that was just … ” … when the sputtering starts again, I usually excuse myself.

Yeah. I might prefer getting to call these people on their crap, but I don’t enjoy it, either, you know? The assumption that your ugliness is just the norm the world over is so offensive.

And finally, thank goodness, there are the ‘normal’ people, the ones who see me, who guess that I’m American … and who couldn’t care less. They exist! Such a relief when I run into them. They’re a real minority here, but they’re here.

My Mother the Co-Ed

I once saw a movie with that premise.  It was cheesy and foolish, but I liked that it was so old — maybe 1930s? maybe the 40s? — and had the mom taking care of her own wants and deciding to go off to college despite the objections of her college-aged daughter.  A little forward-thinking, that.  (Ok, not too forward-thinking, of course.  If memory serves, the mom falls for a prof and ends her school career in holy matrimony.  Feh.)

In school here, I feel as if I’ve got the lead role in the 2008 remake of this film.  I am so very much older than nearly every other person in the school — students and staff.  All of my classmates last week were under 25, and I’m guessing Andrés is about 30.  Infants all.

It doesn’t matter.   I’m here, after all, to study Spanish, not to hang out or hook up.  But there’s this meet-you-on-the-quad-after-class feel here that makes me remember regularly just how much older I am than my schoolmates.  (Ok, just the fact that I said ’schoolmates’ adds about 89 years to my age, doesn’t it?)

Again, it hardly matters … but it must matter or I wouldn’t be going on about it, wouldn’t notice it so acutely.  And I know I don’t look my age, but I definitely feel my age when I’m at the school.  And maybe that’s the problem, the thing that’s got me fussing.  I’m used to feeling as young as anyone in the room (you know, except for my students, who are all practically still in diapers), and something about being here has taken that away from me.  So I feel a little … I don’t know … naked … exposed somehow.

Yeah, talk about needing to put on my big girl pants and just get over myself.  I’m trying.  I’m trying …

Road Trip, Part II

Yesterday, we had an all day tour of Chichén Itzá.  I saw the pyramids at Teotihuacán on my first visit to Mexico years ago, and I really wanted to see this site, too.  I got to climb the sun pyramid at Teotihuacán, and I was a little sad that I wouldn’t be able to climb any pyramids this time around because my knee isn’t up to the job.  No climbing allowed, however.  Tourists used to be allowed up Kulkucán, but now the stairs are off limits because too many people have fallen, including a woman who died last year after a fall down the stairs.

The trip out to Chichén Itzá is L-O-N-G (almost as long as this post is going to be!).  We were hours and hours in our little van.  Not fun, exactly, but it’s actually a lovely drive through the jungle.  At certain places the jungle is so close on both sides of the road, it’s obvious that only sheer force of will keeps it from reclaiming its space.  It must be such a job keeping it at bay.  The least hint of negligence on the part of the road maintenance crews would surely be all it would need to cover the pavement.

Our guide, Tomás, was very thorough, and very serious about his subject.  He is Mayan, and making sure that we had a real understanding of Mayan history and culture was absolutely important to him.  One thing I am certain he would want me to say is that the Maya were not into human sacrifice.  The practice of sacrificing humans was introduced by the Toltecs.  The Maya were scientists, mathematicians, astrologers, astronomers … they made sacrifices, but not ones that took lives.  For example, a woman might pierce her ear at the birth of a child because blood is a sacred gift worthy of the gods.  But even the sacrifices introduced by the Toltecs weren’t about general mayhem with lots of people sacrificed at once.  That idea I know so well – that after a game of pelotes the entire winning team was sacrificed – seems to be an error.  Apparently only the captain of the winning team was offered to the gods.

So the Maya weren’t as interested in might as in mind.  And that’s very lofty and impressive, but it also meant that the Toltecs didn’t have a hard time imposing themselves and their culture.  One the result of the arrival of the Toltecs is that Chichén Itzá is a mix of Mayan and Toltec architecture and symbolism.  Chac-mool, the jaguar and symbol of the Maya is everywhere … but so is the Toltec eagle.  And the Toltec work is lovely, but it’s unfortunate to see that the life of the mind didn’t trump force.

Here is Kukulcán’s temple.  You man know Kukulcán better by his Aztec name, Quetzacóatl, the feathered serpent god. 

There are enormous snake heads at the base of each staircase, but I kept them out of the frame so I could get a shot without people in it.  Kukulcán is built so that on the equinoxes when the sun hits the top of the temple it sends light cascading down the sides of the stairs making it appear as though Kukulcán is descending or ascending the temple.  I’ve seen photos of the light show, and it’s way cool.  One day I’d like to try to be here in March or September and squeeze myself in with the crowds to see it live.

And then there’s this guy:

How famous is he?  I’ve been seeing this figure seemingly my whole life.  How great did it feel to walk out of the trees past the 1,000 columns and turn to see this just sitting right there in front of me?  I think seeing this might just be the thing that makes my trip.

But here’s a thing we learned from Tomás: this guy is called Chac-mool.  That’s his name in my tour guide and in every other tour book I’ve ever bought about Mexico.  But apparently that isn’t his name.  Tomás said that when the Spaniards came, they wanted to know who he was, and the people kept saying Chac-mool, so the conquistadors figured that was his name.  Chac-mool, however, is the jaguar, the sacred animal of the Maya.  This guy, who sits atop the warriors temple was a Toltec figure, not Maya.  And he probably has a name … it just isn’t Chac-mool.  Here’s a wonderful souvenir of Chac-mool:

There are jaguar heads — and whole jaguars – all over the place.  Not all as detailed as this one, but all gorgeous.  This one’s the size of an end table.  Not exactly something that would fit in my carry-on.

Is it clear that I really enjoyed the trip?  I had the same feelings I had Saturday at Tulum: wanting quiet, wanting people to go away and let me take it all in on my own.  Somehow, even though there were about ten times more people on-site Sunday, I didn’t feel as annoyed by them, didn’t feel as intruded upon.  So that was good.  I think part of that was the size of the site.  Chichén Itzá is huge, much, much bigger than Tulum, so you can have a lot of people there and still not feel overloaded by them.  CJ also tells me that the entrance we used (the one by the Mayaland Hotel, if you’re making plans) is a much better entrance.  It’s more intimate and gives you a better build up to the temples.  The main entrance is apparently crazy-crowded and just throws you into the main space with Kukulcán immediately.  I think the preamble is definitely necessary.

So I’ve done my two big touristy things for this trip.  I’m so glad I had the chance to see both sites.  There are so many more to see, however — Uxmal and Coba are maybe next up on my list — so I guess I have no choice but to come back, right?

It’s not easy being green.

Being on vacation in a place where the sight of me is a bit of a surprise for many people reminded me of something that happened years ago.  I was in Sardinia in the early 80s … and seeing me was truly shocking for most people.  One young woman begged me to come home with her so she could show me to her family (I’m totally serious).  She was so adamant — and clearly coming from a place of innocence — I went with her and had a delicious lunch with her completely flabbergasted family.  Her grandmother (who had been driven in for the occasion from somewhere on the outskirts of town) kept stroking my arm … yes, to see if the color rubbed off, but also just in a kind of petting way.  At the end of the lunch she shook my hand and thanked me for coming and said, “Now I know what black people are like.”  Yeah.  Because I was making an impression for all black people everywhere.  Just a little heavy, that.  Good thing I was nice with them, huh?

And then there was the kid riding his moped down the street who was so busy staring at me he had an accident, crashed right into a parked car.

And there was the sailor from the boat that carried me over from Genoa who walked me to the taxi stand so I could get to my hotel.  His name was Chris and he’d been very helpful on the crossing when I discovered that I get sea sick.  As we walked from the dock to the cab stand, he said, “Do you notice that everyone is looking at you?”  I tried to be funny and said something about it being because my fly was down or maybe my hair was mussed.  He didn’t go with it.  “No, it’s because you’re black.”  Very straight forward, that.

Best of all was Louise, the American girl I met at the train station in Cagliari.  She was from Georgia, and had been traveling in Italy for a bit.  She’d apparently had some pretty unpleasant aggressive male attention in Naples and had run away to Rome only to find it not much better, so she’d come to Sardinia.  She went on and on about how crazy Italians were about blonds and how her being white was clearly really appealing to everyone.  I held my tongue because I thought maybe she meant something I hadn’t understood.  We went for coffee in Pulia and in the middle of our drinks she stopped and asked if I’d noticed that everyone was staring at me.  I said yes, I had noticed.

“It’s so strange, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Not really.  People have been staring at me since I got here.”

“I don’t get it.  Usually people are staring at me.”

“Well, you know, I look a little different after all.”

She gave me a quick once-over then shook her head.  “I don’t get it.  I mean, you’re dark and they’re dark, so I don’t see the big deal.”

I was dark and they were dark?  She couldn’t see that both she and the Italians surrounding us were all white and I was clearly something different?!  But she was serious.  She saw the Italians as being as black as I am.  Utterly insane.  I know, I know, there’s the whole ugly history of Italians being seen as the same as blacks because of their dark hair and olive skin, because of their proximity to Africa, blah, blah, blah.  I’m sorry.  That’s an old, old trope that was surely retired long before I found myself in that cafe in Pulia with Louise from Georgia.  Anyone can see that Italians aren’t black.  Anyone should be able to look at me in a room full of Italians and start humming that bit from Sesame Street: “One of these things is not like the others … one of these things doesn’t belong … ”  Or so I’d have thought. 

* * *

Of course, thinking about this is reminding me of another story … one that took a much less friendly turn and could have ended quite awfully.  I was In Orvieto with J___, a girl I’d met on the train from Spain.  We’d been traveling together for a couple of weeks by that time — we’d hung out on the French Riviera before crossing over into Italy.  We’d gone to Pisa, gone to Siena to see Palio, spent a couple of days in Florence and then we took off for Orvieto.  I’d read that the city was crumbling and wouldn’t be around for much longer, and I wanted to see it while it was still see-able (don’t worry, it’s alive and well and still quite see-able … whoever wrote that note for Let’s Go was, thankfully, mistaken).

We arrived on a night train and one of the station attendants walked us to a diner to get something quick to eat before trying to find a place to stay.  As we ate our panini, J___ asked if I’d noticed the staring.  I had.  She said it didn’t feel right, that she was uncomfortable.  So we paid and the guy who’d walked us to the diner had found us a room in a small guest house near the diner and offered to walk us over.  We were going to say no, but he pointed out that it might be safer for us to be walking with a man, so we accepted.  We got to the house and met the really lovely older woman who ran the place.  She showed us to our room and we started to settle in for the night.

Which was when we heard shouting outside.  J___ looked out and saw that a pretty large crowd had formed outside the house.  A crowd made up entirely of men, many of whom had been at the diner.  There was an iron fence around the house and it had a big gate at the entrance and they were all staying on the other side of it, but we’d just walked through the gate, so we knew it wasn’t locked, and the men didn’t seem likely to keep respecting that flimsy barrier.

What were they shouting?  “Give us the black girl.”  Yes, I’m not kidding.  They wanted the old woman to just hand me over to them.  J___ was ready to defend me: armed with the beautiful handcrafted umbrella she’d just bought in Pisa, she took an attack stance by the door.  She would, I’m sure have cracked that thing over a couple of heads if given the chance, but that wouldn’t have done much to save me from whatever gruesome fate those men had envisioned for me.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to hand-to-hand combat.  The old woman told them to go away.  They said they would go as soon as she put me outside.  She scolded them.  They got louder in their demand.  So she called the police.  That’s supposed to be an ‘of course’ thing, but I really think it could have gone another way with a different inn keeper.  The police came and dispersed the crowd.  They even left two officers behind.  I don’t think they stayed outside all night, but long enough for J___ and me to feel safe enough to fall asleep, long enough for the men to remember their humanity and go back to their lives.

“Give us the black girl.”  Just like that.  Like a piece of meat.  Like a mail-order blow-up doll.  What the hell was that?

Ok … not exactly where I thought I was going with this memoir, but there it is.  Hasta pronto.

_____

is hosted by Stacey and Ruth at Two Writing Teachers.