Las mañanitas

"And then, goosebumps appeared all over the body we were about to embalm!" one of my fellow teachers howled "Chinga! The girl was alive!". Friday night, on the eve of a three day weekend, the administration at school had decided to keep us until seven o'clock. I worked most of the day, making tests and materials for the upcoming semester. By five thirty, my eyes were having trouble focusing on the computer screen. The rest of the teachers were seated in a circle in the freezing cold sala de maestros, while one of the math teachers told us stories about a stint he did working in a mortuary. "One time, I had to go to the scene of an accident. A really bad one. Bike accident. Blood was everywhere and then I noticed change spilled all over the ground. Two pesos, five pesos, ten pesos....I had forgotten to bring bus fare to get me home and I decided that dead people weren't going to need the change anyway and I started scooping up the pesos, even the ones with blood on them." Groan, howl and hysterical laughter. "The next day, I picked up the paper and there was a picture of the scene and way in the back, I saw myself, hunched over, arm extended, haciéndome un pendejo".

I was up at 5AM the following morning and got a taxi right outside of my house. Two blocks away, we were stopped at a military checkpoint. A couple of large camouflage trucks lined the street and a soldier manned the gun turret. Cars were stopped and trunks were opened. A man stood with his arms over his head and his shirt pulled up to reveal his belt line. A ski masked soldier waved us through. The biggest, roundest, brightest moon hung in the dark sky.

Sometimes, in moments of adversity, I imagine myself singing "Stand" in front of an audience of my detractors. I have this really spangly dress on and look, well, awesome. I usually sing the howling Sly parts. Sometimes I play guitar too.

As I rode the trolley to San Diego, the big bright moon was replaced with a big round fire red sun that quickly changed the sky to a light blue color. I escaped being accosted on the train. It is always someone, "the thing", as my niece called it, a rough, anglo man (?) that wore garish makeup that had seated itself across from me and stared at me violently before requesting a piece of gum. I turned it down, as I only had nicotine gum and wasn't sparing a piece for a weird stranger. It turned it's attention to an older, Mexican woman and requested a piece of gum in Spanish. The señora stared back at it darkly, without responding until "the thing" finally looked away. Or the insanely drunk woman who aggressively seated herself with Alec and me, began a relatively intelligible conversation, picked up her phone and asked her caller if she "fucked her or was her mother?" and then proceeded to tell us the exact same story for the third time in a row. Or the "friendly" old men that creep over to my area and interview me about every aspect of my life. Nope, just lots of people crossing the border to work, coffee in hand and Spanish newspapers in front of their faces.

Yes, there is an irony to the fact that I had to leave Mexico only to re-enter it by air in order to spend my birthday weekend in Los Cabos. My family met me there. Have I mentioned that my family is awesome? While a lot of Americas won't even go to Cancun anymore for fear of swine flu or drug violence, my mother, sister and twelve year old niece have just made their third trip to Mexico in the last six months. My mother plows right into Tijuana and trots through the centro, buying souvenirs and tacos just like she is in Atlanta. My niece always wants to be in the street, where she can buy elote and Mexican sweets. As for my sister, if adventure had a first name it's H-O-L-L-Y.

I arrived in Los Cabos a couple of hours before my family, and presented my new visa to the migra agent. Trouble was afoot. "I just picked it up yesterday" I explained. "No you didn't" he said haughtily, pointing to the issue date of the twentieth while scooping up my passport and visa and walking to an office in the back. Great. Insisting on speaking in English, he pointed out that I hadn't been stamped out of Mexico when I crossed the border that morning. Shit. His accent was difficult to understand and when I asked for clarification about some unintelligible thing he said he snapped "Pay attention" as if I was a stupid child. "You like that little box you sit in all day, don't you? Makes you feel powerful. It's especially nice to talk down to some American woman too, isn't it? Do you have a hard on?" I asked, or I wanted to ask as I stood there, quietly and politely. I finally made it through, picked up the rental car and drove around a little, then returned to the airport. I popped the plastic lens back into the frames of my sunglasses and placed myself between the taxi drivers, waiting to see my family pop out of the airport doors. I am not sure why Americans go so crazy on vacation. Older, proudly alcoholic men walked around with open beer bottles. One carried a six pack of Dos Equis, popping open a new one whenever he saw fit. Brand new pedicures and golf clubs cruised by me. An older American woman with huge fake boobs walked slowly by, precariously balanced on very tall heels, with a chihuahua riding on her shoulder.

Ahhh, what a weekend. Warm breezes, seafood and humpback whales that would have impressed National Geographic. Yeah, Los Cabos is pretty heavily touristed and there is a damn good reason for it. Quicker than I wanted, I was back on flight to the U.S., so that I could return to Mexico. I sat in a sports bar in Phoenix that proudly advertised Bud Lite! and watched Fox News. It made me wonder which planet I was on while the commentators battled a one sided debate about why gays SHOULD NOT! be in the military. One of the "strong points" of their "debate" was that homosexuals would sue if they had to do extra push ups. Well, that sounds reasonable....their program was quickly followed by a commercial featuring G. Gordon Liddy selling insurance. I certainly trust Fox News and their advertisers.

I was seated again next to Marines on my flight to San Diego and quickly found myself back at the border. I remembered to get stamped back into Mexico, only after being invited to dance by the migra agents while they stamped my visa on the wrong page. As I walked past the ICE agents in front of the turnstile, they quickly pushed past me and zeroed in on a young, Mexican cholo with a small backpack, completely ignoring the much larger bag I was dragging.

And then I was home.