Story Slam ~ Momentos of Home

I got slammed, friends.

I was selected as one of eight contestants to stand before the Busboys and Poets audience and a panel of judges and tell my story of home.

It was a packed house, and many supportive friends had come to cheer me on. My hair was looking pretty good despite the humidity. I wore my colorful Mexican camisa. I had the sound guy play a song by my favorite huapangero, Guillermo Velazquez y los Leones de la Sierra de Xichu, as they announced my name and I danced up to the stage.

But it was not easy to compete with homeboy stories about the ‘Mayor for Life’ and rants about endless, senseless murder in the hood. How about the fellow who opined about Metro? The problem is not lack of funding, he told us, but lack of love.

These stories, so close to home, DC, USA, were told extemporaneously, limbs and lips loose, while I, the gringa, stood still, shielding my eyes from the spotlight, and carefully read my well-edited words from the typed page. Mine was a story of a different home, not found here, in a place, but in fleeting moments, on my journey through Mexico.

Momentos of Home

It’s another day fighting Mexico. On the Vencedor bus with the backed-up bathroom, we all hold our breath anytime someone ventures in. Seven hours traveling in the driving rain from my pueblito in the high plains desert has me squirming in my seat. But I welcome the deluge, like a baptism, after endless months of dust and burning sun. I plug-in my headphones and close my eyes to block out the noise: the crying baby behind me, videos overhead blaring violence in Spanish, the restless niños across the aisle. The guru whispers her wisdom in my ear: ' You’re going to die and I’m going to die and we have these moments together.'

I sink into the seat, lazily crack open my eyes, and notice the little boys are playing with their tongues. I blink and pull-out my ear buds, curious what they are doing.

‘Su len-gua se si-en-ta co-mo un car-a-col,’ the little one says with perfect diction. Your tongue feels like a snail? I grin at their discovery and my comprehension of it.

It’s the older brother’s turn. ‘Ahh-bra,’ he says, ordering his little hermano to open wider, grabbing the tongue and pulling on it. ‘Ewwwe,’ the older boy cries, an exclamatory that requires no translation.
The mother beside them sleeps right through: It’s the only way she gets a break. But my seatmate and I are riveted. Strangers, we bond through our mutual eavesdropping.

For all the alone time I’ve had, the lone gringa in my rural village, divided by language and culture and a subtlety of small-town suspicion, I feel an instant kinship to this señora. The expectation to do or fix, develop or improve that has defined my Peace Corps service is non-existent on this bus. It’s a relief to just be.

The bus pulls-off at a muddy truck stop. There’s a long line at the toilet. I pull papery rectangles from a napkin dispenser and wait my turn. Inside it’s dark. My eyes adjust. I suspend myself over the hole in the ground then flush with a bucket of water I fish from an oil drum.

Outside, the smell of coffee and cinnamon, exhaust and pork fat, hangs on the wet night air. Men in splattered aprons chop barbacoa on a greasy woodblock, piling stringy meat into double layers of tortilla. We stand around the plywood table, spoon guac sauce and chile verde, runny, green and super spicy, onto our tacos. I slosh back into the bus with raindrops on my head and chile on my tongue.
When we land at Terminal Central, my seat mate and I turn to each other and smile. I wonder if we’ll part ways with Mexican cheek kisses, but instead we bid a polite buen vieje and shake, the American way. I watch as the niños, like barrel of monkeys, are pulled through the station by their mama, around the corner, then out of site.

You’re going to die and I’m going to die y tenemos estos momentos conjuntos.

 ~~~

O’Hare Airport is decked out for Independence Day. American flags hang regally from the rafters of the shiny concourses. Embarrassed by the touch of patriotism, I snap a few photos when no one’s looking. It’s Saturday night in Chicago and I’ve got some time to kill, a three-hour delay to DCA. But Mexico’s taught me something about patience.

I find a bar playing the baseball game, and Julio from Jalisco serves me a tall Blue Moon with a bright wedge of lemon. We speak Spanish because now I can, and I feel a little bit proud. He’s proud too: he’s lived in the US for 24 years, he tells me. And I’m living in his country, for the last year, I say, and one more to go. We laugh about this cambio de casas, trading places.

My beer costs 10 US dollars including tip, a lucky Mexican’s daily wage. I take a final precious gulp and head for the baños. I’m awed by the granite countertops and polished marble floor, toilet seats with protectors that rotate to a clean place when you press the button. Whiiir. Endless rolls of toilet-paper and automatic flush. Full-length mirrors for primping, soft peach light that makes you look like a movie star (though I’m playing a raggedy traveler), soap in the dispensers and your choice of hand-blowers or towels for drying.

At the gate the children sit quietly reading books and tapping Ipad screens. Airport TV hums overhead reporting go-local organic markets, heirloom tomatoes and artisan cheeses. The AC purrs, the laptops click, the air hostess smiles, English is spoken.

America makes it all look so easy, smooth, in-control. It’s not fair.

The flight is announced and we line-up by zone. As I file down the jet way I feel both drawn and repelled, straddling two worlds, two homes, the orderly and spontaneous, the haves and have-nots, divided by a thin line that is thickly fortified. And I get to enter. 

Crossing Over ~ Hasta luego, Rioverde!

After two-plus years in Rioverde, my adopted Mexican hometown, I was preparing for a bittersweet departure. My final day was spent at Rita’s, nursing a well-earned tequila-infused going away party hangover, and trying to cram my two and a half years of Mexican life into three boxes and bags to travel with me to “The Other Side” – El Otro Lado as the Mexicans refer to it.  Not death (I’d hoped) – just across the border into Texas, USA.  

Lucky for me I didn’t have to hire coyotes to lead me through the desert and traverse the Rio Grande like my friend Rita once did.  I’d bought my ticket on the Azteca luxury line bus for just 950 pesitos – about 80 USD. It was supposed to be a 10-hour straight shot from my pueblo to the crossing at Nuevo Laredo and, from there, four more hours to Austin.

It seemed the logical way to go:  the airlines would have charged me an arm and a leg to check six big bags – and just getting to the Mexico City airport would require two or three buses and eight hours door to gate – in to opposite direction.

Besides, the Azteca line sounded so much more adventuresome than flying. By plane the trip is clinical – you go from one agnostic airport to another without sensing the change. This way I’d have a chance to experience the shift in terrain and climate, feel the miles of road beneath the wheels, travel with the people, and see with my own eyes what this border situation was really like.

But when I arrived in parking lot where the bus was supposed to be waiting, there was no sign of a departure – not a soul in sight and no bus.  A guy emerged from behind the ticket booth smoking a cigarette and told us the van was coming – they were waiting for one other passenger from San Ciro de Acosta.  

I turned to my friends Rita and Sergio with a quizzical look.  Am I hearing him right, chicos?  Disbelief masked inklings of panic. 

Rita stepped in:  Un van?  Por Tejas, joven, to Texas? She probed the guy.

No, to the Pemex Station on the highway between here and San Luis, was his response.  I understood every word – but Rita translated anyway.  The bus would meet us there, load us up, and then proceed north on 57 direct to the border.

Y Ow-steen? 

Si, directo. 

But that’s not direct. They said it was direct – see, that’s what it says on the flyer. I poked at the words:  Salidadas directas sin transbordos.  Direct means they pick you up at the origination point and take you to the destination point – without stops – and certainly without transfers, I barked in English. 

When I got emotional my Spanish went out the window.  So Rita translated in genteel Mexicana style.  

The guy ignored her and walked out onto the sidewalk to finish his cigarette in peace.

She followed him out, grilling for info, something Mexicans rarely do.  Thank god Rita, my friend, was different.

Rita returned to the waiting area. I was milling around the linoleum floor attempting to quell a storm.  Sergio was playing a game on his flip-phone, trying to stay out of it.

No se, I don’t know, Anna, we can go to find the other bus.  Or we can wait and see if this other guy comes from San Ciro.  If he doesn’t, something’s wrong – and maybe Sergio and I go with you in the van.

I was scared, but I didn’t want to show it.  I’d been all over this country by bus for the last two and a half years – but suddenly the reality of the risk I was taking with this final bus adventure was hitting me.  

Maybe Rita could sense it.  Remember, Anna, she said.  Everything always works out in Mexico. 

I gave her a hug.  Maybe getting scared was easier that facing the fact that I was about to lose my best friend – or become very distant from her.

Es verdad, amiga, it’s true, had been true, up to now. I’d taken lots of chances over the two and a half years, traveled some very dangerous, deserted roads to get to my project communities, over rough terrain, in drug cartel hotspots – and I’d survived just fine.  But was this pushing it a step too far?

Just then a green taxi sped into the parking lot and pulled up in front of us – out stepped a young Mexican sporting a big beige Tejano (a felt Texas-style sombrero, not the straw farmer style I was used to in Rio) – and carrying one small duffel.  His jeans were sliding down his ass like some kind of hip-hop cowboy and puffing out of his ornately embroidered boots.

I turned to Rita and raised my eyebrows? 

She shrugged her shoulders.  If that guy can get a visa, why can’t I? she snarked.

Rita, I don’t think that’s the question right now. 

Suddenly a white van entered the parking lot and bounced across the pot-holes toward us.

What you want to do, Anna?

No se.  I’m going, I guess I’m going.  I don’t know. 

Look, you call us when you get to the Pemex, okay?  Everything will be fine.

But Sergio, please, get our photo, por favor.  I pointed toward the license plate and whispered:  get the numbers, clearly, just in case.

I hugged Rita close around the shoulder, tried to smile, keep it natural.  But I suspected these wouldn’t be the best pics for the photo album – not like the shots of us on our care-free thing-finder day – or the Huapango fair in Refugio in the rain – or last night around Rita’s table downing little shots of tequila called caballitos (little horses), pinching salty limes between our teeth and singing Mexican songs out of tune.

The driver ticketed each one of my six pieces of luggage and gave me the stubs.  I could feel the sweat rising on my forehead as I picked a safe place to stuff them, in the side pocket of my backpack.

Make sure you count every box and bag when you make the transfer, Anna, Rita reminded me as I climbed in.  I sat next to the young man from San Ciro. 

And remember to call me when you get there, Rita barked through the open van door. If there’s any problem, we come after you, okay. But don’t worry, you will be fine. You are a strong woman, Anna.  They will not mess with you.

The door slammed shut and the driver started up the engine.  It was sweltering inside – no air. 

I turned to my fellow-passenger, attempting to make friends, cut through the tension, calm myself, and asked: Nunca tomaste este autobus?  Ever taken this bus?”

Not this bus, he replied, in perfect Texas English. But, yeah, other lines across the border.

He was a Mexican-American. I felt my face redden, embarrassed for my bad job of racial profiling, but also completely amused that Rita missed it too.  He’d probably heard every snarky word she said.  I wanted to tell her; but all I could do was wave to her and Sergio now – and smile and blow kisses through the window.

The light was seeping out of the sky as the van pulled out of town, passing beneath the Bienvenidos a Rioverde arches for the last time.  Two and a half years behind me – I was too exhausted to feel anything at the moment but false sentimentality – and a yearning to be *home* - wherever that was now.  But the fear was still front and center:  we had 700 miles ahead of us and a border to cross.

Continued...