"Prende La Bomba!"

Sometimes, we choose our fast. Sometimes it is chosen for us.

Back when I lived in Mexico, the shower in the home where I lived was on an upper floor, and directly over it was a broken skylight.  As October moved into November, the night temperatures would fall into the low 50's so some mornings when I got up to get ready to go to class or elsewhere, I'd be shivering in that cold. Still, knowing what REAL cold was like, it was only a minor inconvenience.

Of course, most mornings we had hot water, but some days...not so much. I became adept at very quick, economical showers in freezing-cold water.  In one of our classes, as I recall our teacher told us that we could yell "Prende la bomba!" to tell people to turn the hot water pump on, but I never once used the phrase. (Admittedly I was a little afraid I'd get the phrase wrong and be yelling something ridiculous or obscene, which unfortunately did happen at other occasions much to my great mortification.)  Most mornings, actually, by the time I was in the shower the host family was gone anyway, running the kids to school or perhaps already at work...or just leaving.

I was reminded of those cold-shower mornings in a very real way this morning, but somehow, I think the water is colder in Minnesota.

Over the years, that being most of my life before and after Mexico, I've become quite accustomed, especially in these winter/early spring days, to enjoy a nice warm shower in at least a fairly warm house.

Until Saturday- that is...yesterday.

I turned on the water to the shower...not warming up. I turned the dial further over...a little improvement but not much. Realizing something was very wrong with the heater, I jumped into the shower to use what warmth was left, it was quite bearable but nothing near what I'd call "warm enough", and when I was done and ready to go, I made sure the pilot light wasn't out. No smell of gas. No leak.

I replaced this stupid thing only a few years ago.

When I called to see when they could service the heater, I learned that they would need an 8 hour block of time. Being that this is a class weekend and I'm not here, this weekend is not an option. I made an appointment for Monday afternoon.

You realize, of course, that that means...two days of cold showers. Not just cold, but FREEZING cold!

I hope I didn't wake my neighbors up as I gasped for air in shock this morning and screeched while trying to wash my hair.

Oh, and by the way....I'm quite awake today, thank you very much!

Also....I really hope those words I posted mean what I think they mean.

Have a blessed Sunday, everyone.

Blessed Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe!

"Hear and let it penetrate into your heart, my youngest son, that there is nothing for you to fear. Let neither your face nor your heart be worried. Do not fear this nor any other illness, nor anything pounding nor afflicting. Am I not here, I who am your Mother? Are you not in my shadow, under my protection? Am I not your fountain of life? Are you not in the fold of my mantle, in my crossed arms? Is there anything else that you need?"

Ximopaquilti María, teh titemictoc ica mahuiztic.

In Toteco yetoc mohuan.

Tateochihual tehuatizin intech nochin cihuatzitizin.

Tateochihual in Tapoxhuil den moihtic, Jesús.

Yectictitzin María, inan Dios ximotatauhti

totechcopa in tahtacolhuanime

axcan huan tomiquiliztempan.

Ma ihcon mochihua.

Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia,

el Señor es contigo.

Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres,

y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús.

Santa María, Madre de Dios,

ruega por nosotros, pecadores,

ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.

Amén!

Hail Mary, Full of grace

The Lord is with thee

Blessed art thou among women,

and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,

now and at the hour of our death

Amen!

Welcome Father GJ!

It's about time, but FINALLY one of our own local priests has started a blog!

Go welcome FatherGJ (aka Father Nels Gjendahl) to the blogging world!

I'm actually insanely jealous of him because he's in Mexico right now. Unfortunately he's not in Puebla where I spent most of my time, but he is talking about the places and experiences and basically all sorts of things I miss. *sigh*

Mantilla twitch to my dear friend-in-real-life, Cathy of Alex. :-)

Better to Keep Silence

There's more than one kind of solitude. And they don't all mean the same thing.

I've been wondering about my attraction to the Cistercians (Trappists), trying to figure out why this Order is so amazing to me.

I thought I was Dominican in spirituality; certainly, no "decisions" have been made. And the Dominican spirituality is not in conflict with that of the Cistercians. It's just interesting to me that although I have looked at Dominican cloisters, they don't attract me. And although in the past I've been in contact of the Sisters of Mary, Mother of the Eucharist...I no longer care to visit them. Maybe because they're too big.

Too noisy. Too popular.

I've always hated crowds and noise. I've never been interested in what's popular, preferring what's silent.

Growing up, I was always the "quiet girl". Clamming up has never really been a problem for me. Yes, I have my social moments, but it's not constant. I'd prefer not to talk to people in the morning right away, or just before I go to sleep. Talking to God is just fine. Interacting with others all the time?

Lemme alone.

I think it's the balance of community and silence that is attractive. The balance of solitude with God, and interaction with the "world" of the monastery that makes sense to me.

I've never been one to have a flock of honking friends. It's always been a few close companions, meaningful friendships, built on something real, not superficial. I like people; I don't like shallowness. I believe in making connections, and being present for people in need. But not in building "friendships" for the sake of numbers.

People I met long ago remain with me, their images burned into my memory. Like the little girl in Mexico City late one evening. She was maybe a pre-teen, wearing a soiled yellow tshirt with a soiled pink mini-skirt, wiping windshields. As she finished the job on the car ahead of us, she accepted a peso or so, looked around, flat affect, and then moved through the stopped traffic, onto the sidewalk, and disappeared into the darkness of the slums of Mexico City. I'll never know her name, but I'll never forget her; we "met" that night and I can't forget her story, even for that moment.

On Facebook, I have found high school "friends", people with whom I existed in those hallways, but who were not my friends. I look at their lives now, get glimpses of who they've become...and I don't want to know them now. They weren't friends then, they aren't friends now, and they will never be so. We have nothing in common. It is not that I don't love them; rather, the opposite is true. It is just that we'd have no words to pass between us to break up the silence.

Better to keep silence, then. To honor good will, or place good will in the silence where in the past there was only animosity.

There is wisdom in silence. There is wisdom in communication without words. There is honor in solitude, especially when that solitude is a more perfect union of love that transcends anything we can understand through our senses.

I worry about telling my mother about this Call I may have. She has an inkling, and and we spoke of it a few years ago. But not since. Mom fears I will leave her and never return.

Dad had the same fear. It wasn't unfounded. I can't do that to Mom. Her solitude is forced; mine will be chosen.

I worry about my brother. He won't understand. Even though he seriously considered the priesthood at one time, now he's fallen away, and the idea of living in cloistered austerity is so alien to him, I fear he'll think he's been betrayed. I want to be able to entrust him to someone; maybe a Catholic friend with whom he could discuss his fears, and his own sense of abandonment.

Because it'll be there. It's not about me per se, but about having a sister, an only sister, and then she's gone. I think I'd better understand "losing" him to a monastery than he could understand "losing" me to one.

Even though our family isn't that close, the connection is there, the importance of family is there, and our love is there.

I don't have to make these decisions tonight, or reveal these secrets to those who can't yet understand them. But the day is coming. So as I discern, I know I can't focus on myself, but I must be sensitive to the most important people in my life.

Christ said that we must let the dead bury the dead, that we must leave brother and sister, mother and father behind. But sometimes He DOES want us to wait. We have to trust HIS timing, and not our faulty understanding.

Right now, I think I'm experiencing a certain kind of solitude. Although I share some of what I'm experiencing, the deepest things are reserved. I have no spiritual director, unable to find one as of yet. It would be helpful to talk these things over, and maybe some of those things I don't want to speak but perhaps maybe should.

Step by step, God calls, but not until He decides we're ready. We may hesitate, but He knows the time, He knows our concerns. And if He won't abandon us, we know then that He won't abandon those we love.

The hour groweth late, and I must go, pondering these things, ever more deeply.

Until the time for action is upon me.
*

Lose Your Language, Lose Your Culture

Back in 1994 when I lived in Mexico, we took a "study-trip" to Cuetzalan, which is a little puebla in the Sierra Madres. We walked the few kilometers to the local village belonging to the decendents of the Mexicas (commonly called "Aztecs"), who still speak as a first language that ancient tongue of Nauhatl. San Miguel Tzinacapan (St. Michael at the top of the noble mountain) consisted of homes of varying sorts; most had dirt floors, cooking implements akin to that of colonial America (or before), and in most ways, the people were still living much of the ancient lifestyle. Their religion was Catholic, but with the flavor of their culture; the ancient dances, such as the one that used to honor the god Quetzalcoatl (the feathered serpent) was danced in order to honor the One True God on special feast days. Likewise, the Voladores would dance on the top of a high pole and fly downward, on those same feast days.

Lessons from the Ancients

On the day we arrived, we were treated to these dances, for it was the Feast of St. Michael the Archangel, the patron of their city. The Church, built during the colonization of Mexico, was the center of the town, and Mass, the center of their lives.

It was amazing; they had lost nothing of who they were, but had embraced all they could be. It wasn't about materialism; it was about God. Life was about loving God and loving neighbor, even we, the strangers, as they welcomed us into their town and into their homes.

But we heard one dominating complaint, both there, and in articles written in various publications. It came up in class lectures, and is perhaps one of the biggest lessons I took with me from that experience: the young people were ashamed of their history. They had grown up first with their own culture, and then learned the adaptations to mainstream culture, that of the Spanish language and contemporary Mexican culture. They were being well educated in their towns, sent out to learn even more, and they were learning to be ashamed. They were TRYING to forget their ancient language.

Their elders were concerned; for if they lost their language, they would lose the rest of their culture as well. For their culture wasn't just a bunch of trappings, but was something far greater which was bound to them by their common language. It was the language that could properly define the culture and traditions they carried.

Their language was the key.

American Culture

America, as we've all learned from grade school, is a "melting-pot". It's a bunch of people from a bunch of places that nearly erased the native peoples in favor of what has come to be known as "tolerance" which tolerates only popular opinion.

As Americans, we have no culture. Although English is our common language, we're even losing that. We still see hints of the various people who came to live in this country; the Irish, the Germans, the Italians, the Spanish, and more recently, the Nigerians, the Somalians, the Hmong, the Vietnamese, and all those refugees from Mexico, Central America, and South America.

There are pockets of religiosity which are becoming smaller, but more intense. As we enter into this Holiday (Holy-Day) season, the culture wars become more obvious. The religious versus the secular. The secularist hodgepodge trying to erase any semblance of culture in the name of "tolerance", which tolerates nothing but the gray.


Overall, we have nothing that we share in common. Not even our language, anymore. We are all screamed at to be more "tolerant", and in this tolerance, we find that nothing is tolerable, for everything that defines us in a particular group, especially religious, is not acceptable in this society.

Many years ago my Mom was taking a class in Native American Studies. I went with her to a pow-wow where she spoke with a woman who observed, "America has no culture." I didn't understand then, but I do now. SHE had a culture; it was very easy for her to see how we did not; she was sad for us, my mother and I, who had lost ours. She saw us as orphans.

She was right.


Cultural Catholicism

Catholics were known from the beginning, for we stood out in the pagan culture. Our ways were documented in the Letter to Diognetus, and those same premises stand today...if we let them.

But there was more.

The Catholic Church is commonly identified in the media as ONLY the Roman Catholic Church, but there are many more Rites; the Maronite, the Syriac, the Ruthenian, the Byzantine...there are many. Each in union with Rome. We are united in our beliefs, under the Vicar of Christ, and the Roman Rite (Latin Rite) used to be more recognizable by our liturgy which was held in Latin, our common language. It was the largest Rite of the Church, and remains so...and is also, today, the most FRACTURED of Rites, for we have lost our language....and thus, our culture.

Vatican II was a very good thing and did make many reforms. However, the documents stated clearly that although the vernacular was to be given more freedom, such as in the readings and in the Gospel, the common language of Latin was to remain, as was the musical heritage of Gregorian Chant. The latter, which is purely in Latin, was to "maintain a high place" in the liturgy.

Yet, we've seen the systematic attack against this common language since the late 1960's so much so that Latin, as the main root of the English language, isn't even taught anymore. The prejudice against Latin and the Roman Church is so strong that classical education has been completely lost in this country.

Especially among Latin-Rite Catholics themselves.

This loss is horrific, for with the loss of our common language, we have also lost our common culture. After Vatican II, those who did not actually understand the hermeneutic of continuity interpreted them according to the spirit of the age, and attached the term "Spirit of Vatican II", bullying the American Church into accepting "reforms" that had NEVER been intended. It erased our language, cleansed our churches of art and beauty, and made us utilitarian in our newfound protestantism.

From the new "visionaries" that arose out of the pot-induced smog of the 1960's came the idea that Latin was the root of all that was wrong in the Church, and it MUST be QUASHED at any cost.

So it remains even today, even after we've emerged from the disorienting scent of weed into the growing popularity and clarity of pure incense, people hear the word "Latin" and automatically turn into war machines. It has become such a point of contention that those on both sides of the issue have seemed to become polar opposites, refusing even to see those things that truly divide them.

Latin is the symbol, but it isn't the problem, nor is it the cause. Even as it remains to be the key.

Have you noticed that this dichotomy does not exist in the other Catholic Rites? They have NEVER lost their common languages. ALL of their ancient traditions remain in place.

It is the Latin-Rite Church that is struggling, for our common bond has been lost. We lost the key to our culture, and we haven't been able to access it or understand it ever since.

There is something to be said for a common language. There is something to be said for allowing the vernacular, but with a common thread of a language we ALL understand, no matter where we are in the world. To know that those in Vietnam are hearing the Consecration in Latin, and understanding it...to know that those in Germany are hearing the Sanctus in Latin...and are singing along. To know that those in Mexico are raising their voices in the Gloria...in Latin....warms my heart.

We are not just united through Holy Communion, but through our language and our culture. I have been in contact with Catholics all over the world, and know that, if we all spoke Latin, we would be even more closely bonded.

The American Church, the Roman Church as a whole, lost our language, and that was only the first step. We've lost nearly our entire culture.

Those who claim to be "cultural Catholics" cite things they remember prior to the "reforms" of Vatican II. But they don't even live those things out today, and dissent against all those things CLEARLY taught by the Church, in the common vernacular. The popular media, when portraying ANYTHING Catholic, falls back on Gregorian Chant, upon statues, stained glass, and high altars, for those things are our true culture.


Are you seeing this? Those who dissent...claim as their own things they've never seen, or remember ONLY from their childhood. And those who observe, do not portray the Church in America as she is, but as she used to be, in all her beauty.

Even THEY see Truth and recognize what is right...even as they arm themselves in battle in order to defile her.

Yet we have an entire generation or so trying to lose that culture, and who have done everything they could to erase it even from their own memories. The memories they claim define them as "Cultural Catholics".

We, who survived the self-destructive tendencies of the now-graying and dying Baby Boomers are trying to revive the war-torn parishes, restoring what has been lost. Our dear Pope Benedict XVI has heard our cries and has made a huge move not only to restore the Mass as it was prior to Vatican II, but to reconcile those who reacted too strongly to what was wrong, and went into schizm.

Our culture is coming back; our true culture. It is no mistake that the most identifiable part of this culture is the Latin language.


The world calls Latin a "dead" language, and it also claims triumphantly that the Church is "dying". Yet, in my entire life on this earth, I've never seen more life in the Church than there is today with the ongoing restoration of all that has been lost, from the language, to the art, to the liturgy, to the morality going back to the Didache and beyond.

We will not "go back in time". The Novus Ordo is a valid Mass, and I do love it in its own way, for I grew up with this Mass. I accept the authority of our Popes and our Bishops, but I rejoice in the restoration of a history I have never been given a chance to experience.

I have never attended a "pre-Vatican II Mass" for it was only a memory by the time I was born. I've been to a Latin Novus Ordo, and it changed my life. I hope, this weekend to attend the Extraordinary Rite (ie "pre-Vatican II Mass") this weekend at St. Agnes, and even though I don't expect to understand anything going on...I embrace it as an experience in true culture.

You can destroy a civilization by destroying their language; the Catholic Church is far stronger than that, and refuses to devalue that which the rest of the world has defined as "obsolete".

I understand the concerns of the Elders at San Miguel Tzinacapan, and I thank them for sharing their wisdom. I pray they are well, that their children will grow to embrace their history instead of destroy it, and that God will have mercy on the Church in America and throughout the world.

!Nos Acercamos y Casi Nos Robamos!

Yes, that says what you think it does.

It means I'm going to tell another story. Are you shocked or what?

I need to lay down a few truths about Mexico:

1. The people of Mexico (los Mexicanos) are bonitos, simpaticos, amables, and some of the most friendly people you will ever meet. If you go to Mexico, you will fall in love with the people and their hospitality, and you will love them forever. If you don't, something is wrong with you.

2. The Government of Mexico is ALMOST as corrupt as the Government of China. And whiile, in the US, "the Policeman is your Friend", in Mexico, "the Policeman is Satan".


I wrote of this before, but let me rehash a little history: I spent a semester in Mexico back in 1994, an election year. I was ther when Vicente Fox was elected Presidente. That was a really big deal. I was also there when propsition 987 was passed in California, and thanks, Americans...you subjected me to the Immigration Agent from Hell. I hope you have to meet him, too.

Anyway, in college, I majored in Criminal Justice, so while I was in Mexico, I sought to learn about their police. It was a curious phenomena; while in the US we tend to idolize, to a degree, our police (see shows like COPS), in Mexico, they are the scum of the earth. I remember visiting the Museo Antropological de Historia Americana in el D.F. (The Historical Museum of American Anthropology, located in the Federal District of Mexico City "el De Efe"), and the police guarded the doors...holding sawed-off shotguns.

I tried to get a photo, and it seemed they knew...every time I raised my camera, one of those Nazis would look straight at me, so I'd pretend to be looking at something else.

Sawed-off shotguns are outlawed in the United States. Sawing off the barrel causes the shot to spread, and this, of course, is deadly and unpredictable. While I was there that semester, I met a bouncer who was an ex-cop, Geudiel, ousted when the new governor came in. He explained, in a very matter-of-fact statement, that the cops carry sawed-off shotguns because they are more effective in crowd control. They kill more people.

I was so shocked that I asked him to repeat what he'd said. It wasn't a big deal to him at all. Those guns were MADE to shoot into crowds IN ORDER to kill more people.

Welcome to Mexico.

So it was that I came to see the mentality of the police force in Mexico. Their divisions were also different, and designated differently. And there was no coordination in between the ranks...they all had separate jurisdiction. A city cop could not respond to a call for a crime belonging to the jurisdiction of a different type of cop. But that didn't stop ANY of them from forcing bribes (mordidas) from anyone they came across. For any reason.

When I lived there for a semester, I worked in a practicum adjoined to the Delegacion (police station), and so I came across many cops. While I was curious, I wasn't stupid; they were not approachable, and as a light-haired (at the time) American, I knew I couldn't approach them without paying a price that I was not willing to pay. Just take a guess. As it was, I was once mistaken as a prostitute because I worked with them. That's a different story, too.

In any case, I was there for a semester, I returned home, and in 1996, I returned, with a friend who did not speak Spanish. We stayed in Mexico City with a friend of mine, and she and her cousin dropped Linda and I off at the TAPO, a bus station in Mexico City that would take us to Puebla, where I'd lived. We didn't have hotel plans, for I knew where to stay and didn't need a reservation. It was my city. It was home.

But just the same, my friends didn't wait with us as they had to go, but I saw them speak to the gate agent, pointing us out, likely asking that she make sure we understood the incomprehensible gate announcements when we were to board our bus. I saw the woman smile and nod, and then Vanessa and Quique left. I thought nothing of it.

It was broad daylight, and we were two clean-cut young woman. What could possibly happen?

Oh, right. The cops.

I was antsy, excited to see Puebla again, and Linda was seated on a bench against the wall, reading, trusting me to handle things.

So it was that as I paced, two middle-aged men approached me, both wearing jeans and flannel-patterened shirts. They looked like regular guys, and as I saw he was making a beeline, I figured at first that he was a guy who wanted to practice his rudimentary English. And hit on us. That happened a lot. (Keep in mind...I was 22 at the time, my friend was maybe 24 or 25.)

So I stopped, and waited, a polite smile already frozen on my face as I figured out how to deflect these guys considering that we were stuck while waiting for our bus.

He said, "?Hola Somos la Policia Federales. Tienes algunas drogas o narcoticas y puedo ver sus pasaportes?

(Hi, we are the Federal Police. Do you have any drugs or narcotics and can we see your passports?)

Just like that, in a rush of words. And keep in mind...I don't know if it's true now, but at the time, passports were not required in order to visit Mexico. But I had one and had recommended my friend get one. And upon entry, a tourist card was stamped and kept with the passport. I was so glad I'd advised my friend of this.

I knew about the Mordida , although when I'd lived there before, I'd never had to pay one.

And there we were...two young American girls, with a one-way ticket to Puebla, maybe $20.00 in American money (and almost no Peso) between us, no one expecting us at a specific time...no one knowing when we would come back to Mexico City.

I was certain we were about to disappear.

But I was a college grad then (quite fresh..the previous week), and I was a future cop....I already had an offer in hand. And although I was terrified, I wasn't about to let my potential identity go unnoticed. It was the ONLY bargaining chip we had. So, I bet my knowledge, and I bet my career for both of us. I had no other choice.

Standing straight, at first refusing to be intimidated, I asked our accoster, "Tiene alguna identification?"

He stopped, shocked, angry. I'll never forget his expression...and thought maybe we'd be facing Mexican prison by the end of the day.

But no; he pulled his badge out of his pocket. It was black with red and gold, and upon it was written, "Policia" across the top, and underneath, circling around the oblong, "Federales Judiciales" I'll never forget it. I even put my hand on it, as if to test its authenticity, to be sure it wasn't from a Cracker Jack Box and these guys were not just a couple of punks. I'm not sure what made me reach out...I should have been terrified. And I was...but if this was a fake, I needed to know because I would not suffer for a fake.

It was real. He pulled it away from me, glaring at me balefully, amazed that I had DARED to ask for credentials.

It was then, when I looked into his eyes, that I saw the truth; and that we weren't in America, and that this guy wasn't playing fair. We didn't have Civil Rights, and in fact, by demanding ID, I'd just ticked him off.

We came to a non-verbal understanding, and I turned and walked towards Linda, who still sat, absorbed in her book, glancing at me in surprise as I backed into my seat on the bench next to her.

By then, another guy joined the first one. I knew this scene...I'd seen it from the outside. I knew these guys thanks to my research in 1994 and my friend Geudiel.

The Federales are bad..the Federales Judiciales (Federal Judicial) they are the worst. They have the "most" education...which is a far cry from even our "least educated" police in America. And The Federales Judiciales...they live on torture and mordidas. They know the law enough to manipulate it the most to their benefit. They know how to make people disappear, and how to cover their tracks.

It's a common scene in Mexico...the cops robbing someone. Give them your money willingly or they'll take it by force.

And Linda and I had no money. I'd thought we'd be safe at the bus station. We looked like college students, both recent graduates, and really, we didn't stand out from the crowd, not traveling on a Sunday afternoon.

Until the Federales came our way.

I sat down, shaking, pulling my purse open, pawing for my passport and tourist card. Linda stared at me, surprised, asking,

"They want our passports?"

She saw my shaking hands, but she hadn't seen this coming and had no idea why I was scared.

"Si! Passaporte! Si! Passaporte!"

I couldn't speak English so I resorted to rudimentary Spanish, the only important words. But I showed her mine as an example as I handed it over, and she, too, pulled hers out. She asked me if we SHOULD hand it over...would we get it back? How did we know these guys were for real?

I didn't say anything...I only looked at her, saying, "Si" as an indication to hand over her documents.

I knew they might keep them...but it was a chance. And if we refused, we'd be immediately taken into custody...and no one would know. We'd disappear. We needed a miracle.

I'm not sure which cop took my documents and hers, or if they both looked at them. I kinda think the first guy took them both as the second guy stood behind him as the secondary indimidation factor.

The red flannel-looking cop stood before me with an expression of interrogation. He asked me where we were going.

Puebla.

Why?

Because I lived there for a semester in 1994 and I was returning for a visit.

Does my friend speak Spanish?

No.

He was silent, flipping through my passport...the same one I'd used in 1994.

I knew it was coming...the mordida. But we didn't have enough. And I knew it was time to volunteer information; I had to find some way to identify with these guys. I knew it was our only way out. (I'm pretty sure it was my Guardian Angel's idea).

So while Corrupt Federal Cop #1 was looking at our documents, I told him that I, too, was going to be a cop, and that I'd been educated to be so.

He asked me where.

I gave him the city and state.

He said something else, but I didn't understand the words he used, so I asked him to clarify, explaining I didn't understand.

He started yelling at me, speaking rapidly, screaming...I had NO IDEA what the man was saying. At that point, I could not have understood either English OR Spanish, and this guy was going on a tirade. I fought to maintain my composure in the face of his verbal onslaught.

Then the other guy spoke up. I saw immediately, amused in my mode of terror, that they were playing "good cop. bad cop". The guy who was playing "Good cop", when he could get a word in edgewise, asked me simply, "?Que tipo?"

His tone was comforting, as well as his simplicty of words. The other guy had steam coming from his ears.

I didn't trust him one bit, but at least I could understand him. (He reminded me of my Jr. High science teacher...that was weird).

So I explained that the police in Mexico are far different than the police in the United States, and here, we have City (Ciudad), County (Condado), and State (Estado), and that I was going to be a police officer for a city, beginning in September. (That fall).

The Federale playing the "Bad Cop" role snapped our passports shut, handed them both back to me, and stomped away. In the meantime, the "Good Cop" told me all about Puebla, where to go, what to do, and admonished us to have a good time.

I know he said more, but I was so far beyond understanding that all I could do was nod in accordance, trying to maintain a semblance of composure, hoping he would leave, wondering why he was telling me about the city I already called my home.

Finally he thanked us and walked away.

Linda kept looking at me strangely, and I put my passport away, still shaking. She didn't say anything.

The dear woman at the gate ran up to us as soon as the plainclothes cops rounded the corner.

Her approach was both motherly and professional as she chattered and helped us gather out things, ushering us out to the sidewalk outside the gate.

The metal detector went off; I stopped, waiting to be searched. She ushered me through, and Linda too, telling us it didn't matter. We protested that our bus wasn't in...she said it was due any moment. So we walked through to the shrill alarm.

It was maybe another 15 minutes before the bus arrrived, and we were searched by metal wands before we entered. As we finally were seated, Linda noticed I was still shaking...I couldn't even tell her why. I told her it was the Fedrales Judiciales...but she didn't understand. And I don't think she ever did. And she didn't need to. Because, somehow, we got away both without a mordida..and with our freedom.

And I still thank that unnamed woman at the gate; I fully believe that had she not sent us through, the Federales would have come back and our story would have a different ending.

Decision Made

Thank you to all of you who responded to my previous post.

I have decided that this is not the time to go to Mexico, and no, I'm not a bit disappointed.

There are several reasons:

I have been to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe twice, which is far more than most people will ever experience in their lives. Additionally, there is NO GUARANTEE we'd get a chance to go to the Basilica, which is in Mexico City, very much out of the way of the wedding we'd be in Mexico to attend. While we would be going to the Cathedral in Puebla, a building built by angelic hands, well, I've been there before, too. And while Puebla is "home" for me, it will still be there after December. And if not, well, that's in God's hands.

Secondly, while my friend needs a travel companion and is willing to pay for me, that doesn't mean she can afford to, and she may find another traveling partner who is also already bound for the wedding. My going or not going is not a deal breaker for her, and she is still discerning what she is going to do.

Thirdly; someone brought up the path to holiness and doing a good for a friend. Well, this friend must make her own decisions and she will, but I must also make my own, and discern what God has already called me to do. Is this a diversion from that path? Yes. Because I will be working on things for class through December 15, plus preparing for Christmas with my family, working on other projects for work, etc., well, this trip comes at the worst possible time.

Fourth, and most important; I do not have peace with the idea of going. All it causes is anxiety, especially in looking at the timeline. Only 1 month to prepare, never mind all that I have to accomplish in relation to school and work within that month.

It is not prudent for me to go. This morning I informed my friend that I simply cannot go, and she of course understands and so is looking into her other options. My decision frees her to do what she needs to do and to look in other places for assistance; if it is God's will that she go, He will indeed get her safely to the wedding.

I love Mexico, and it will always be my second home. I hope to go to the Basilica again one day, but for now I am content to wait for God's time. This trip was not about the Basilica, but provided a possible opportunity only. That is not enough to sacrifice so much for something that may not happen.

Discernment Advice Needed

Here's the situation: I have a friend who is hoping to attend a wedding in Mexico. She really needs a travel companion, and what's cool about this is that the flight is into Mexico City...and the wedding is in PUEBLA when I spent the best 3 months of my life.

She's going to my hometown!

The price of the ticket isn't bad, just over $400, which is typical for Mexico City which has mainly business travel. She so wants to go that she is willing to pay my way.

I don't feel good about that; she's paying for the same things I am, including school. But to her, it's more important to be there, she's willing to make the sacrifice. I'm just not willing to accept that sacrifice on her part so would fully intend to pay my own way.

And it sounds like we wouldn't have to worry about hotel or anything so the expenses would be mainly travel in this case.

But then there's the passport; For around $120, I can renew my passport with a rush...which, as the trip is out about 1 month, well, a rush would be required.

I have not kept my passport updated as international travel is not a priority in my life, there have been no opportunities I could afford, so I just never went to the expense.

Now there is a possibility, and a decision must be made soon. If I'm going to get the passport update, it will have to be tomorrow.

Whether I go on the trip or not, it seems like a good idea to update the passport at this point, because one never knows. But if I'm not going to go to Mexico, is the expense justified?

And to be fair, there's another reason I want to go to Mexico again (besides the fact that it's my second home on earth): When I was there before, I was not living my faith, even though Puebla is the "City of Angels". I was in countless churches and cathedrals, and the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe...but never attended Mass. Not once.

The wedding is to take place in a Cathedral in which I have been several times as a non-Mass goer, and it is a building built by angels. Truly.

Going in early December is a way to revisit this very special place, in a very special manner, going home, and making it more "home". I'm also hoping to be able to make a real pilgrimage to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, now that I'm a real live practicing Catholic, and have been able to recognize her intercession over the years. I've twice been to Mexico via Mexico City, have been to the Basilica twice...and yet it's never been "real". Hard to explain. But I've always regretted that I was not disposed for the graces that could have been available.

If I weren't in grad school, I'd just go. Period. But given the expense of grad school and my blegging, given the extra expense of having to renew the passport, given the possible expense of having to find someone to watch my dog, well...it's not prudent.

Or does the possiblity of a true spiritual pilgrimage, with another practicing and faithful Catholic, justify an expense such as this?

I know I must pray to Our Lady of Guadalupe, and as of now, I'm leaning towards just paying to renew my passport...and offering it to God to do with that as He wills.

Can anyone offer any advice or prayers? I can't guarantee that there will be a pilgrimage to the Basilica, although just the return to Puebla with opened eyes is a pilgrimage all by itself.

But the cost....that is making me want to say "no".

What does God want?


UPDATE: 10:11 pm CST. I can't find my Passport. It was supposed to be in a particular location where I keep other things. It's not there. And I didn't look for my birth certificate, of which I should have 2 (an original is often needed for certain things).

If there is no passport to mail in for renewal, and if I can't find an original birth certificate...well, it's a done deal and God's will is known.

I like it when He makes it simple. If X then X. If no X, then no X. Offer it up.

Crossing Borders - Part I - the Early Years

Tonight I was just "bloggin' around" and over at Transcental Musings , she mentioned wanting to learn Spanish.

I offered that languages really can't be learned solo; they require interaction.

The opportunity to learn Spanish was not presented to me until 9th Grade. At the end of eighth grade, I knew what my two 9th grade electives would be: Band (I played flute, and I rivaled 1st Chair), and Spanish. And then the plot thickened; Mr. Kane, the Art teacher pulled me aside one day to encourage me to take Art as my elective. He saw talent in my work, really thought I needed to continue on. I told him that I was taking Spanish, and I had to continue with music. He did not try to talk me out of music; after all, it is an art. He really pressured me to put off Spanish and take Art while I could. I turned him down, having made my decision. I was flattered that he was so insistent, yet there was no question in my mind that I needed to study Spanish. Had I had my way, I would have taken all 3 electives; but that was not an option. (And I think of some wasted time, such as in "reading comprehension, that I could have tested out of on day 1) * sigh *

So it was that my route to Mexico began in a Jr. High school in Southern Minnesota. I had no idea where it would lead; most who begin studying any given language don't last long. So it was. I think we did have a 2-year language requirement. As it was, my Spanish class Senior Year had only 11 survivors, and our teacher was a terrorist. That's why we loved him so much. He had a gruff exterior, he expected the best of us, and he will never be portrayed on TV because he was politically incorrect. He used sarcasm that sometimes crossed a line, but those who hung on saw his true intent. I remember agonizing each year...should I continue? Not only was he my Spanish teacher, but I'd been unlucky enough to be assigned to his homeroom!

But I continued, and even returned during college to speak to the Spanish classes about college, and about Mexico.

Ah...Mexico. One of the reasons I chose my college (now University) was the study abroad opportunities. I grew up in a very poor family...we were on welfare for most of my life. So quite literally, I'd never been ANYWHERE. Ok...once we visited the corn palace in South Dakota. And my grandparents in Escanaba, MI, where I fished off the pier with my Dad. While I wanted to go and hoped, I didn't think I'd be able to, and really had given up. But suddenly, something took hold of me, and "told" me I "HAD" to go to Mexico...so I applied, and I didn't even have to go through the process. The Prof. who happened to be the stateside contact for this trip, and the main advocate was also my academic advisor. I walked into his office. He grabbed my flie, but didn't even look at it. "You're going."

There was no interview necessary. This Prof. knew his students.

So it was that, me, a poverty-stricken girl from the midwest, found herself on a plane to Mexico City...having studied Spanish for 6 years.

My first 4 years consisted of the year of foundation, and then three years of Hell. The High School teacher (Mr. Engrav) was SUPERB and taught mainly in Spanish by the 4th year. But it fell off in college. I did not try to test out, on his recommendation, for his opinion of college Spanish was that it moved to quickly for most students and we'd be lost. His students who had tried to test out sometimes found themselves in over their heads. So I took his advice and just signed up for the recommend College Spanish for those of us who had had 4-5 years.

Unfortunately, both Profs at my college were really not up to Mr. Engrav's standards. One had studied in Chile for awhile, but I didn't have him as an instructor. The one I did happen to sit in front of was a highly intelligent man. He was from the Ukraine, spoke six languages, one of them was Spanish, and he'd never studied actively in a Spanish-speaking country. (That was my understanding. One of my readers may be able to correct this.) And he spoke Spanish with a Ukranian accent. None of that was really an issue. What WAS an issue was the canned Spanish provided. I had come from a high-school Spanish class that used real-world resources. Our teacher had a stack of Spanish-language newspapers and newspaper clips. We were given our lessons for the day, but once a week or so had to take an article from the paper of our choice, read it, and present it to the class. If a word was used that had not previously been used in class, we had first to define that word. That was a typical exercise. And our grammar had to be perfect, we had to have accents in the right place, etc etc.

So college was a shock; not because it was too hard; because it was too EASY. The first year was such cake I, and another student from another school who was likewise well prepared, never studied. We both realized we should have tested out...but we were stuck as the deadline had passed. So we didn't study; we didn't need to. We came to class, having glanced over the book that was used...and we answered each question as it came to us. Even the prof realized we hadn't done our homework. We did occassionally mess up, granted, but both of us took easy "A's". It is fair to say I actually didn't learn anything that year, because it was all elementary to me. That bred bad habits.


By 2nd year College Spanish...well, our learned laziness caught up. My friend and I had "unlearned" what we'd been taught by our high school teachers, and so our Spanish study skills were not really up to par that year. We did both begin studying again, and while it wasn't hard, we'd set a standard for ourselves, and when we did hit difficulties, we were called out for it. The first 2nd year spanish semester wasn't too bad...it really caught up 2nd semester of our Sophomore year.

So we were pulled aside a couple tmes. The book didn't always make sense, so at times, for all of us, the lesson was incomplete. We literally would go into class, sit down at a conference table, and by rote, go over the lessons in a book. There were no real lectures. And our professor often had to question the lessons in the book; they didn't make any sense to him, either, what was being asked.

I ask you...if the Professor doesn't know what's going on...how can the students possibly learn anything?

So he would occasionally pull the two of us out of class, and give us the lecture he'd had to give (as an example) the first year, but now it was serious. "You have to do your work outside of class."

I always wanted to ask him, "Why? You don't. You don't know what the book is asking, either. How do we know if we're 'learning' anything correctly?" And truth be told, even 2nd year, if I looked over the lesson and it was obvious, I wouldn't waste time doing it, which did lead to some errors. But our Prof liked his star students...when we looked good, he looked good. That's the reality of education, for some Profs.

I have to say I learned very little from him by way of the actual Spanish language.

So by the time I left for Mexico, my Junior year of College, I'd had 6 years of Spanish...but really, only 4 of them constituted any real learning, and I'd actually backslid by way of taking College Spanish.

{ to be continued.... next stop....MEXICO! )

Culture Shock

I spent half of my Junior year at college in Mexico, living with a host family in the very large city of Puebla, which is situated approximately 2 hours southeast of Mexico City.

I still see those months as the best and most valuable time of my life thus far. Three months out of thirty-one years and counting.

They provided much preparation for the differences in culture before we headed down...we discussed the weather, appropriate dress, "Mexican time", class and OUR duties as students, our practicums...an the culture shock we would experience when we re-entered the atmosphere of the United States.

We remained in Mexico City for three days, during which time it rained on us and we thought we had left the sun behind. But we did see the sun again on the day we visited the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Amazing how she always points to her son...and that day was no exception.

But I digress. I remember our arrival in Puebla, sitting in the classroom after taking our Spanish placement exams, waiting like little orphan puppies for our host families to claim us.

"Who belongs to V.R.?" came the call. I stood nervously and left my new group of friends, still waiting to be claimed.

My host mother greeted me with a hug and assisted me in getting my baggage to her car. She asked me how much Spanish I had studied an explained that the girl who had stayed with them 2 years prior spoke very little, so she got used to using hand signals to convey what she was trying to say. I was actually grateful for this, for although I'd studied for 6 years, I was so lost and confused, my American brain so muddled, that intellectually I felt I had regressed to infancy.

She drove me to their home, chatting all the while...I barely understood a word. She was careful to enunciate, she pointed when she could and patiently repeated questions, words, or whatever I didn't understand. I was terrified and she knew it, God bless that dear lady!

We arrived and she showed me to my room, and around the house. She asked me if I'd eaten. Yes. She offered me food anyway. I had learned that I really could not refuse...this was their hospitality and if I didn't eat she'd think I was sick..or worse..rude. So as stuffed as I was from 2 Ham and Cheese croissants, hot chocolate and churros, I agreed to a...ham and cheese sandwich. (sanwich de jamon y queso). And bottled water.

Over the next few months, I came to call Mexico "home" and barely even remembered the conveniences and comfort of my American life. I didn't miss the things I thought I would miss and quickly became used to using the language...and excelled. Of course, I HAD to excell...my family didn't speak English and they wouldn't let me get away with fudging answers when I clearly did not understand the questions.

While I was there we traveled on study trips and I had to give a report on tomb 7 of Monte Alban in Oaxaca, all of the material for which was in very difficult Spanish...but somehow, I managed. I worked with women and men in prostitution as my practicum, a social services ministry called "Municipal Program for the Defense of Human Rights".

I saw cops who carried sawed off shotguns and learned from an ex-cop, as he told me very matter-of-factly that it was for shooting into crowds so they could kill more people with one shot.

I obtained a whole new view of the world and of the people contained within...and I rejoiced at every turn at God's creation. Although the trip was often difficult, it was also rewarding.

When it came time to leave, I did not want to go home. I had converted to Mexico..and in spirit, I was Mexican. I loved the country, I loved the people. I found God there, although I really didn't initially recognize this.

They had warned us about re-entry to the US, but it wasn't enough. There was no way to really tell us how to handle what happened upon our return.

Yes, we were greeted at the airport with open arms and smiling faces. We were welcomed to family gatherings and greeted with "Welcome back stateside" by relatives in military forces.

But the hardest question to answer was "How was Mexico? How was your trip."

The ONLY way to answer was, "How much time do you have and how open are you to a different culture?" But that's not what I said. I told them, "It was home."

Initially, I hated the United States. I hated the materialism and longed for the simplicity of the life we lived down south of the border. I was quickly bored with the sea of white faces, and blending in again to this culture that matched the blandness of the color of our skin.

Where was the color? Where was the understanding? Where were the people I left in Mexico, and how were they doing?

You may be asking what had happened to me?

I'll tell you. Some of it was frustration. I thought that when I returned to the US, everything would be the same and there would be things to catch up on. I thought the world would have moved on somehow. I thought things would have changed in three months.

Nothing changed. It was like coming out of the wardrobe from Narnia back to the spare room ("Spare Oom in War Drobe). Nothing changed. Nothing changed.

NOTHING changed.

Everyone was the same that they had been...but I had changed. I had come to see life with new eyes. I had come to understand things that I had never before understood. I had come to learn that the world is smaller than I had thought...and that my town and state were still smaller.

I had seen glories of creation I never thought I would see, and I discovered doors that I never knew existed...but I had no way to convey this because it is not just intellectual and experential social, or political, but spiritual.

I saw clearly what I had left...and had I not had to finish college, I would have immediately returned to that life I had so recently flown from.

For the longest time, that itch to return to Mexico burned within me, to minister to God's own children...but I had to bide my time.

And the longer I bided, the further I re-entered into American life.

But every so often, I long for Mexico, I long to return...not just to Mexico, but to other countries as well.

So I have to ask..am I a missionary in denial all these years? Did I miss my calling, or is God's time different from my own?

And when I remember those three months, I realize that I am still suffering from culture shock...and still...nothing has changed.

Or has it?