Mexican Journal part 1 & 2

---

1
Blackbirds

I find that I am not as comfortable being alone as I supposed I could be, being too used to the chaos of home and family to be at peace without them. At home there was always a house full of people, full of activity and energy, with relatives and friends dropping by or events to host. The mechanisms I used to turn off the world around me and gain some peace are of no use here in Mexico, a place devoid of children, friends of children, pets of children, my wife, her relatives and my relatives. There is nothing and no one to hide from but myself, no inner sanctum required. There is just too much peace and quiet and I am not accustomed to it. I sleep too much and watch too much television. At times I am anxious and even a little panicked from separation trauma.
Here, a different culture, language, diet and high expectations from the company management lead to more stress. I try to find comfort in establishing routines and by exercising and eating right. Such high hopes I had to shape up and lose some weight. The first pushup I did in my hotel room caused such a great pain in my left shoulder that I abandoned that particular exercise, as it signaled an advancing age and a need for more low impact exercises. Maybe I’ll get some of those stretchy rubber straps from the Wal-Mart to pull on.
Learning Spanish will certainly help reduce the isolation, although I have been here several weeks and my Spanish is only slightly better than when I arrived. Writing down my thoughts and feelings also seem to help, or at the least preserve them for posterity for anybody that cares. It is so difficult to negotiate the city and the language; I often do not even leave the hotel room to eat. That is one way to lose weight.
There is danger here too, though not of a physical nature. Without the architecture of wife, family and church, the anchors that held me in place are being dragged along in a too deep ocean, finding no purchase. Adrift and treading water, surrounded by too much freedom and too little discipline, I could easily drown.
My soul and my spirit are what are in danger here. The body can rejuvenate from injury in most cases, but the soul can be lost forever, consumed and pulled down into a vortex from which it cannot escape. There is no one here to lower a rope or stretch out a hand to pull me back into existence. Prayer is a lifeline of course, but it is too nebulous and opaque for my needs. While I can hear the voice of God giving me comfort and rescue, I just as easily forget that voice because it does not seem tangible enough to me. Maybe it is because I do not have the depth of faith required. Maybe my faith is shallow, unwilling to make the deeper commitment that could stabilize me. I really don’t know. I have started reading my Bible, beginning at Genesis 1:1. Being a fast reader I should get through most of the Old Testament before heading back to Michigan in December. That is as long as I don’t stop too much to ponder the actual meaning of the words. So shallow, so much more concerned with finishing then with absorbing.
Why did I volunteer for this job? I am no longer sure it was the right thing to do. Was I looking for escape from the roles I had heaped upon myself, the way some men go off to seek their fortune or adventure? Was I searching for a simpler existence or a means to be free of the restrictions I lived within? To some degree I think the answer is yes.
The question for me here, in this seclusion, is whether I give in to my demons. They subtly but forcefully invade the cracks in my weakening armor, like a freeze/thaw cycle that tumbles great mountains into dust with just a trickle of water. Someone throw me a rope.



2
Corn Flakes


I search for comfort in the familiar, some tether or lifeline to keep me from drifting. There are birds in the courtyard outside my room. They are black, like the blackbirds back home, which makes their appearance comforting. Until they speak, or squawk or whatever it is that birds do to make noise, and the sound is nothing like the familiar call of a Michigan blackbird. The illusion is shattered; their voices grate on my nerves, sounding like so many other voices around me, foreign and incomprehensible.
Speaking to me as if I understood her, a girl in the cereal aisle points and waves at the small box of corn flakes I have just picked off the shelf. I tell her sheepishly “hablo no espanol”. She hesitates, searching for a way to communicate her message. I am at Wal-Mart. A Mexican Wal-Mart where everything says made in Mexico and that’s all right.
There is one obvious difference in this store regarding security. Standing seriously outside the main entrance, a security guard stands with a sub machine gun hanging menacingly over his shoulder. Sunglasses shield his eyes from me, concealing intent. Who would he shoot with that? What transgression could possibly warrant an outburst of 13 rounds per second for the standard M16 weapon? If little Juan pocketed a pack of gum, would he wind up dead along with anybody standing within twenty feet of him?
Was it just a deterrent, like the nuclear armaments stored by the super powers to deter attack? Wal-Mart, not having nuclear weapons that we know of, could only resort to the old standby sub machine gun to protect its borders. Did the guard even have any bullets in it, like Barney Fife in Mayberry, only allowed to keep one bullet in his pocket? I decide not to test him.
The girl gives up reluctantly, as it is obvious I am stupid and don’t speak the language. “Hey, you’re in Mexico, speak Spanish” is probably what she is thinking. Moving quickly away with my cart and my corn flakes I escape into obscurity again, trying not to be noticed by any more aisle girls. Turning the corner to head down the next row, I see at the end of the row a giant display of large boxes of corn flakes. When choosing which box I would buy in the previous aisle, I had chosen the small box of corn flakes. This is when the girl had first approached me. Now seeing the display in front of me, with the special price displayed, I understand her intent at last. Smiling, I catch her attention and she comes over to me, pointing at the sales price and also smiling. I don’t need to read Spanish to understand what a sale looks like. It is the same in any country.
We understand each other with the common language of commerce and cash. Taking a large box of corn flakes from the display, I hand over my earlier selection, which she returns to its spot on the shelf. Happily, she smiles at me again and I smile back. She has made a sale, and I have a large box of corn flakes that I will throw away later because it is stale. No wonder it was on sale.

---