Lucha Libre

"Leave some work for your 3:10 class and go to the computer lab" the prefecta told me, at 3:00. Leaving work for a class is difficult when there are not textbooks, copies or even a television. And it was the second time last week that we were summoned without notice to watch a little TV educativa about school reform in Mexico. Boring, a group of people seated in a blacked out room around a glass table with fake Egyptian busts surrounding them. I don't fall asleep spontaneously in public but really have to fight not to during these videos.

The meeting was flowing over into our 4:00 break on a day when I had to teach seven back to back classes. I needed that 4:00 break. I had to pee and I was thirsty all at the same time. I needed caffeine after watching that video. I needed to get out of that room. People started shifting around and eyeing each other around four. "Give us our break!" they shouted, kicking over tables and rushing the door. Or I wish they did. We were finally released around 4:45, about fifteen minutes late for our 4:30 class. The kids had been running wild for about an hour and a half. I noticed teachers sort of hovering, no one was running off to get to class. I hovered too. Several teachers started walking toward our break room, saying that they were indeed taking their break. I followed. Someone finally said that we were allowed, we were getting our thirty minutes and, an additional fifteen! The atmosphere was festive in the break room. Around 5:20 teachers started trying to trickle out, maybe teach, time to go. "No one's leaving!" one boisterous teacher said loudly, laughing and blocking the door. "I have to go to the bathroom!" one teacher wailed, only to be blocked from leaving. "I need water!" another called, approaching the exit. "Take mine!" he said, thrusting a bottle of water at her. Though the atmosphere was jovial, it was becoming clear that this break may not have been sanctioned by the administration and it was better if we all "misunderstood" together. Around 5:30 someone rushed into the break room. "There was a mistake. We are supposed to be teaching!" They filed out, snickering, while hundreds of students watched us with curiosity.

I was glad they rebelled. It was bullshit. But I was asking myself in that break room if that was how strikes start.

My snack shop friend had an Anarchy in the U.K. t-shirt on on Friday. "Awesome" I thought and asked him if he liked the Sex Pistols. "I actually have never heard them" he said bashfully "I bought this shirt in San Diego because I thought it was cool". I offered to burn him a CD, always willing to inflict my musical interests on others. "But it's my last day" he told me. WHAT? "I'm going to the other side". I didn't know what to say and shuffled off. I avoid goodbyes. My head was full of nasty images, desert walking, rides in trunks of cars, vans bashing through the gate at San Ysidro. I returned to the snack shop and spoke to his father, who explained to me that his son was born in the U.S., he has a passport. "Want to go dancing with me in the centro one weekend?" he asked slyly, passing me his phone number while looking over his shoulder at his wife working nearby. Nice.

I spied El Hombrecito's brother standing on a street corner near my house while I walked to school one afternoon. "Hi profe!" he said, with a genuine smile on his face. "You going in taxi?" he asked, while the Santa Anas swirled around us. "Yeah" I answered, "it's too hot to walk. Want to come?" He agreed and flagged us a taxi. We actually got a decent rate. As we rode in our reggaeton thumping cab, we spotted El Hombrecito walking with a girl down the side of the road. "Can we pick them up?" we asked the cab driver and loaded two more into the cab. Oddly, the taxi drivers don't seem to mind making their cabs into makeshift school buses. When we arrived at the school, I was surprised when the kids pulled out money, offering to pay for the entire fare. No, my friends, this school bus ride was on me.

"¡Quiero ver sangre!" they screamed at the Lucha Libre match. We had taken a wrong turn in the centro and ended up on a street filled with hookers and mariachis. I desperately wanted to pull out my camera, but listened to that little voice that said "Hilary, might not be the best idea". When we found the auditiorio of Lucha Libre, we realized how low rent it was when we were shuffled to a caged in area behind the building with an outdoor ring. Alec bought a "cerveza grande", two beers forced into one styrofoam cup with hot sauce coating the rim. One old timer sat against a wall in a "Hecho en México" hat and repeatedly hissed "pendejos" at the participants. When the "wrestlers" would arrange themselves in certain formations, various sections of the audience would knowingly jump to their feet and run, knowing that men where about to start throwing each other over the ropes and into their vacant seats. While the rest of the participants elected intimidating face masks, tights and leather, one wrestler was inexplicable dressed as a bee. A bee that kicks ass. "¡Callate!" overweight men in superhero masks yelled at señoras, well, señoras that heckled. A perfect ending to a perfect week.