Pobre México

It´s quite fun to kick back and watch the misunderstandings fly . . . and fly they do.

Nowhere touch two nations, two peoples, two languages, two worlds that are so utterly different.

The Americans do not understand the Mexicans, though they think they do, even Gringos who live among us. Those poor Mexicans are just like us. They only need a helping hand.

Helping hand = charity.

Truth is, explaining Mexicans to Americans is akin to explaining a sea society to a desert-dwelling people who gauge everything by its relationship to saguaro cacti and blistering sunshine.

Neither do Mexicans understand Americans, but they really don´t care that much, being far more introspective. Mexicans focus on themselves and their families. They care about other Mexicans only as a cuddly patriotic concept.

Their attitude toward their American neighbors is a conflictive brew of envy, wonderment and resentment.

Putting aside the current global economic crisis (which is cyclical and will pass), let us ask ourselves why the economy and society function remarkably well north of the U.S.-Mexico border, and just the opposite south of the border.

To twist that old campaign slogan: It´s the culture, stupid.

Yours truly defines culture very broadly as the way a nation, a people, looks at the world. And that world view passes through the prism of their language, which is one issue.

Spanish is a Romance language and, like love itself, it is shadowy and unpredictable. You can hide in Spanish. You can dance, this way and that. You can be quite unclear if that is your desire.

. . . as it often is. Octavio Paz famously wrote: A Mexican´s "face is a mask and so is his smile."

English, like the English-speaking people, is far less prone to masks. English is often directly in your face. It is a tongue with Germanic undertones. It is efficient.

* * * *

We are very different. Contrary to common notions, Mexico is a younger nation than the United States. It´s 1810 versus 1776.

But that measly 34-year difference is deceptive. The United States began as a democracy, and has been one for over 200 years. Mexico, on winning independence, promptly slid into chaos and into the arms of Gen. Santa Anna.

. . . then the mess with Emperor Max . . . and the dictatorship of Díaz . . . the murderous revolution . . . the comparatively benign dictatorship of what became the Revolutionary Institutional Party, lasting until the year 2000. Almost yesterday, amigos.

Mexico is still staggering, bruised and bloody.

What did the past 200 years (yes, we are about to celebrate the bicentennial) do to the Mexican mind and heart?

It made us stunningly cautious and suspicious. We do not trust others, and we certainly do not trust any government. Many, perhaps most, men toted pistols down into the 1950s.

But we smile a lot, and we love to say yes. Doing otherwise, we have painfully learned, can be quite counterproductive.

And potentially lethal. We have learned to act happy.

. . . which totally flummoxes the Gringos, a fun side effect.

* * * *

Mexico is a large country with lots of natural resources, a mother lode of possibilities that we waste due to the distrust and suspicion that has been pounded into us over centuries.

Like the bright, high school student with poor grades, we are not living up to our potential.

The nation above the Rio Bravo totally misreads us, and how not? The Gringos had no Santa Ana, no inept emperor shipped in from Europe, no moustachioed Generalissimo Díaz . . .

. . . no bloody revolution that ended only one long lifespan ago, no slick "political party" of oligarchs stealing elections, sometimes at pistol point, for most of the 20th Century.

So here you have two nations. One has progressed successfully through two centuries of democracy. The other has crept two centuries from one bloody disaster into another. What do these people have in common? Absolutamente nada.

And yet they are neighbors, shoulder to shoulder.

Mexico has changed, especially in this decade, just the final five seconds of the nation´s time-line.

It´s time to grow up, time to don long pants, come out of the house, say hi to our neighbors, learn to see long-term, recognize that what helps the neighborhood helps us too . . .

No one will shoot us although our guts signal otherwise.

. . . time to quit sneaking up north to cut the Gringos´ grass, time to stay here and check out the many opportunities we have within our own borders. And, sí señor, there are many.

Our biggest enemy faces us in the mirror. It is time to take off the mask and be sincere, time to do what we say we´ll do . . .

. . . arrive on time, say no when it´s appropriate, trust others and see that usually we´re not disappointed.

. . . though at times we will be. We´ll get over it.

* * * *

A prosperous society cannot float atop a sea of distrust, ill-will and suspicion. The foundation must be cement and rock, like we build our Mexican houses that last for centuries.

It´s time for change.

The gagged society

Survivors of the 13 people shot dead at Fort Hood have two things to blame:

1. Muslim religious lunacy.

2. American Speech Police.

Both are at fault, but it´s likely the Speech Police carry the heavier burden of bloody responsibility.

The Speech Police is the shadowy, unofficial arm of the powerful Political Correctness Movement that has held sway in the United States for a couple of decades.

Unlike the equally puritanical and ill-conceived War on Drugs, which does have a specific start (1969 with Nixon), the Political Correctness Movement came upon us gradually like a Viet Cong guerrilla in the dark, armed with piano wire, in the jungle.

Piano wire to strangle us until we see things their way. And that means nobody shall be offended at anytime by anybody under any circumstances whatsoever. Be nice -- or else.

After it gained its objective, scaring people into silence, it stepped out of the jungle darkness, and now walks the nation free as the proverbial birdy. No problem. We are cowed.

Let´s get back to Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan. It has become clear that the government well knew that Hasan was an unhinged Muslim wing-nut long before his rampage. But nothing was done.

The culture of fear caused by the decades we´ve dealt with the Speech Police keeps us self-muzzled. We cannot state the obvious because we can be instantly unemployed. Or we will be forced into Re-Education Camps (sensitivity training).

Nobody in the military was willing to state the obvious out loud, fearing it would damage their careers, a totally justified worry in the American gagged society.

Ironically, studies have shown that people passing through the Re-Education Camps come out the other end not more "sensitive" but less. And filled with resentment. Yes, Re-Education Camps are counterproductive.

Yours truly left the United States a decade ago and does not know if Re-Education Camps still are employed. Their work possibly has been so effective they are needed no more.

American Speech Police do not creep the halls at all levels of society. The lower middle class and blue-collar workers like plumbers, electricians, carpenters and Farmer Bob and his wife, Mabel, say whatever the devil they choose.

They don´t care. They are a free people.

It´s Big Business, the media, the upper levels of the military, academia, for example, where the Speech Police swing their steel-nailed cudgels to such good, silencing effect.

Though Maj. Hasan was suspected to be a lit fuse, nobody would take action. The people who knew chose "sensitivity" over clear good sense. And 13 innocent people are dead.

Perhaps it´s time to decommission the Speech Police. We hear they´ve slacked up a lot in places like North Vietnam and Communist China. Why not America? It´s way overdue.

* * * *

What has this to do with Mexico? Not much. Well, there is the contrast element. In Mexico, we enjoy free speech. We are deliciously at liberty to speak badly and joke about others, and others are free to do the same to us. And we survive.

We do not crumble and weep. We are not wusses.

(Note: Who´s the guy in the photo? Ho Chi Minh who ran the gagged society in North Vietnam.)

15 seconds of fame

Nescafé, Mexico´s preferred java, is running a new TV ad.

Perhaps you´ve seen it. It´s being shown on various channels.

The spot shows scenes of lovely, Colonial Pátzcuaro, and right at the very end the camera shows an old, second-story window.

Standing in that window is a woman enjoying a nice cup of steaming cafecito.

What the coffee company doesn´t tell you (because it doesn´t know) is that it´s the window of the very bedroom where the Eggman died.

Yes, just behind that window, behind the woman with her cafecito of steaming Nescafé, still sits the bed where the Eggman´s body was found with the bullet hole in his chest.

Suicide? Murder? Or stupid accident? We still don´t know.

Wrapping the women

Let´s take a look at the Muslims. Well, we´ll just take a look at the Muslim men because the womenfolk are all wrapped up!

This matter has nothing to do whatsoever with Mexico, so bear with us, por favor. We´ll return to Mexico rapidamente.

But it does relate to the previous item in which we show that Jim Crow attitudes have been adopted by the intelligentsia, and that people who voice those attitudes are now sensitive folk.

Okay, some Jim Crow attitudes, not all.

Why can´t we see Muslim women? Why are they, with some exceptions, wrapped up? The Koran does not require this. Muslim men require this, and why is that? Because they don´t want other men to see their gal. Pure and simple.

They pass this off as a religious requirement even though it is not. The Koran says women should cover their bosoms. Verse 24:30-31. It does not require full body coverage.

The Arab world, a very macho place, requires women to cover themselves almost entirely. In Saudi Arabia, women cannot drive cars either or do many other outdoor activities alone.

The Koran does not say a woman is barred from driving a car. Nor from driving an oxcart. So why can´t they drive cars? Or oxcarts? Show their pretty heads in public?

Because the Muslim man doesn´t want the guy next door to see what he´s gettin´. That´s it -- in the ole nutshell.

This is very oppressive for the Muslim women, though some of them will say otherwise. They have to say that. They don´t want a good stoning when they go home.

* * * *

Okay, so this much is clear: Muslim society, run entirely by men, is very oppressive for women. One would think the enlightened Western world would be against this abuse in all cases.

A few days back, we read of a devout Muslim woman in the United States who, on applying for a corporate job, was told that -- if hired -- she could not cover her head at the office.

No doubt fearing a stoning from her Abdul at home, she complained. And who complained with her? The American intelligentsia!

The corporation, they said, should be sensitive to her culture.

Cultures are not better or worse. They are simply different!

So, yet again, the trendsetters close ranks with the cavemen. Sensitivity gets into bed with those poised to knock you senseless with a club for contrary notions.

Or give you a good stoning.

Strange bedfellows indeed. Or perhaps not.

What the Devil´s going on here?

Talkin´ race

It´s not uncommon to hear Mexicans diss Americans for being racist.

This is always good for a chortle.

You´d be hard-pressed to find a more color-conscious culture. And class-conscious to boot.

The darker you are in Mexico (called moreno), the dumber you are assumed to be. And no bones are made about this. It´s spoken of openly, and looking down one´s nose at darker brethren is as common as biftek tacos.

Even the darker brethren openly speak of wishing they were lighter. Mexico is hyper-color-conscious, and there is no speech police here to keep the topic undercover. Like in the U.S.

On Mexican soap operas, wildly popular, the rich are almost always white (güero in Spanish) and their maids are invariably moreno (actually morena, the feminine spelling).

And the gardeners are relentlessly moreno too.

Expectant parents openly grit their teeth in worry about how moreno their children might be. And down here, it can easily swing either way due to the racial makeup of Mexico.

More moreno, sad parents. Less moreno, happy parents. Of course, this worry is justified. Less moreno opens doors. More moreno slams them shut.

And yet they call Americans racist. Pardon our chuckles.

* * * *

Let´s head north over the border, shall we?

. . . and look at President Obama, obviously a biracial man. Mama was white. Daddy was black. It´s a clear-cut case of mathematics. Fifty-fifty. No other way to cut the pie.

And yet he´s called black or, due to the political-correctness storm troopers, African-American.

He even calls himself that.

Ironically, this is Jim Crow thinking. In the bad, old days, any degree of black ancestry directed one to the black drinking fountain, the Negro restroom, the back of the bus.

Clearly, that mindset still reigns. If you´re any part black, you´re all black. George Wallace walks arm in arm with Louis Farrakhan. Bull Connor´s in bed with Whoopi Goldberg.

What the Devil´s going on here?

Come on down!

We bought the Sunday edition of El Universal, a nice paper from Mexico City.

On opening the Employment Section, we found 17 pages of job offerings. We doubt the Houston Chronicle had 17 pages of jobs on that day.

The jobs ranged from high-end work requiring university degrees down to tons of mundane toil like drivers, waiters, clerks.

All honest work with a paycheck connected.

It was a veritable gold mine of employment opportunity.

Seventeen pages. And these were not tiny tabloid pages but broadsheets. We noticed a sizable ad from Home Depot, one example, which is hunting sales people and cashiers.

The pages flowed on and on and on . . .

And yet, many in the United States believe there are no jobs in Mexico, and we downtrodden Mexicans have no choice but to steal over the border. We gotcha fooled, amigos!

Perhaps it´s time for you Gringos to consider reversing the immigration tide, wade en masse over the Rio Grande, assault the fence near San Diego, cross the deserts of Arizona.

We´ll put water out for you guys, abutting every other cactus. Some taco stands to churn your tummy. Maybe something like a CARE package till you get your first paycheck of pesos.

The Welcome Wagon.

Mexico! Where the jobs are. The out-of-work Gringos can rent a cheap apartment, perhaps doubling up with others of their own kind. They can send funds home to their failing families.

Yes, amigos, there are jobs in Mexico. So what keeps so many people poor? Hmmm. A culture of defeat and distrust, which can only be cured from within. That´s what.

We gotta wake up and smell the work opportunities.

Round trip, Chapter 2

As reported before, three Mexican relatives tried to run the border recently.

Here are details, straight from the mouth of one of the participants, a nephew, 26. We ran into him yesterday on the plaza.

They crossed at Agua Prieta, across from Douglas, Arizona. They were in a group of about 20, and there were other children.

As mentioned in the previous post, our family gang consisted of this nephew, his brother´s wife, and her boy, age 3.

We are pondering sending this example of parental responsibility to the Believe It Or Not folks.

The group arrived at a hole in the border fence as dark fell. They decided to spend the night on the Mexican side and start out fresh in the morning. They slept on the ground.

Passing through the fence hole the next morning, they headed out afoot into the desert, making a zigzag pattern, as instructed by their guide.

After some hours of this, they got thirsty. Water ran out. It was not fun. It was hot and dry. They changed their collective mind. They looked for a Border Patrol vehicle, and found it.

They surrendered. ¡Ayudenos!

Later, they and 90-plus other border crashers were on a Homeland Security plane to Mexico City.

¡Bienvenidos a Mexico!

Your tax dollars at work.

The round trip

The young man had dreams of easy bucks up where the Gringos live.

So, like many of his Mexican paisanos, he slithered north.

Dodging law and scorpions.

He´s been in Oregon over a year now, doing God knows what.

He´s our nephew, and he´s 24 years old.

Recently, missing her young man, his wife in Pátzcuaro decided to copy his criminal trail. With her went their boy, 3, and the young man´s big brother, who is 26.

This is the true tale of their (brief) American Adventure.

Two weeks back, they took off, obviously having found the services of a coyote, which is the slang term for border-sneaking guides. Our intrepid trio also had dreams of big bucks.

Okay, perhaps not the tot. He was just following, hand in hand, his irresponsible mama.

(Let us pause a moment to emphasize that none of the four people in question were suffering in Mexico due to poverty. The two brothers even own a home outright. And the older brother routinely quits jobs because it interferes with soccer.)

Now back to our journey. But wait! We learned yesterday they are back in Pátzcuaro. My goodness! What happened?

Immediately after entering the United States, they were in the paws of the Border Patrol.

They were fingerprinted and put on a plane directly to Mexico City. At that point, the Mexican government gave the two adults $1,500 pesos each, a program for "returning immigrants."

They boarded a bus back to Pátzcuaro.

Big brother says he´ll try again. Young mama says no más, once through the desert was quite enough, gracias.

And the young man in Oregon, who most likely sent the cash to pay the coyote, is wiser and broker. Well, perhaps just broker. Wisdom eludes the young.

No newsracks

Why are there no newsracks on the mean streets of Mexico?

Perhaps they exist. However, we have never seen one.

Lady Zapata has a theory, but her Gringo hubby prefers his contrary opinion.

To follow this gripping conflict and to look at a website you perhaps have not noticed before, go here.

Sensual world

It was the curve of her caboose sitting sideways in the window sill of the ice cream parlor . . .

. . . that tossed this simmering theme back to the mental surface.

Sensuality undulates through the Mexican ethers. The sexes are very different. Men are gorillas whether they look like them or not . . .

. . . and women are one breath away from their next swoon.

Skins are dusky, and senses grow edgy in candlelight, the dusky time. Hair is black, and lips are red and sweet past sunset.

The senses are irrational, and it´s clear that this is an opaque, irrational, senseless world. But of the senses. Watch out.

Women tend to scratch, and men tend to shoot.

Emotions flare. Clothes fly off. Words are thrown, sometimes loud, sometimes soft. Perpetual adolescence, or how adolescents want the world to stay forever and ever.

We are adolescents in perpetual heat. Forever and ever.