La vida viva de Lola/The Lively Life of Lola

No estoy muerta

2010-07-15T00:27:00.002-06:00

Contrary to some recent speculation, I am, de hecho, alive. Se lo juro.

Per Rocektgirl's request I am updating my blasted blog, and when the date of my last entry popped up I realized that I haven't posted in over a year. Ouch. So sorry, Rocketgirl. It's not as though we talk every other day or anything.

There are myriad reasons for this. In my most recent (¡ja-ja!) entry, I was bemoaning my lack of employment. One year later, I'm back in the same boat. I did get a job, teaching middle school Spanish in a district a mere thirty miles from home, but they drastically reduced the position for next year so I didn't re-up (Is "quarter-time" even a job? Really?). I have mixed feelings about this. The kids and many of their parents and my colleagues were awesome, but I have never been so exhausted in my life. It was more draining than having mono, plus the emotional drain. I'll admit that I do miss my kids, but secondary ed just isn't my calling in life. That's all I'm going to say about that.

Since school got out, I've gone underground. I'm just too tired and emotionally unstable to show my face or get much done right now. I'd thought the funk would have passed by now, but it's taking its sweet time. I ought to be more proactive about shoving it out the door, but that's the sick irony of having my motivation sapped. Right now I'm working on shedding this pesky writer's block.

And yes, my social life has been the other casualty. Ask me if I care, ja-ja-ja. In sincerity, though, I do feel bad about not being in touch with my friends. That makes me kind of a crappy person.

It's getting better, but in the meantime, here's to apathy.

Apoyo

2009-06-23T08:30:00.003-06:00

Not much has changed, but little by little I'm seeing some improvements, largely because of good people in my life.

Still no job, but over the last few days I've sent in a couple of applications for real jobs at real universities that would give me real paychecks. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I discovered these listings because of a lovely relative who told me where to look. I would never have found this site on my own.

A wonderful professor of mine from my MA has been helping me with my grant proposal and application (much more than he ought to feel remotely obligated to do). One component of the proposal that had been worrying me was the requirement of securing a letter of affiliation from a foreign institution. In the past, not all candidates have been sucessful in filling this requirement. Imagine: you send a letter to a professor or a librarian or an archivist or a research lab director whose name you've found on the institution's website, essentially a cold call, saying "I'm a student/graduate at University X, I'm writing a grant, you don't know me from Adam but is it okay for me to come invade your lab for a year in the unlikely event that the committee should award me the grant?" Now you understand why it can be sticky. However, if an applicant is lucky enough to know someone who has a connection to another someone at that institution, and the first someone is willing to organize an introduction and give a recommendation. . .well, it significantly simplifies the process. I happen to have such charmed luck, since my prof did his PhD at the university whose aid I am soliciting. He's already heard back from the friend we've asked to sponsor me, in the affirmative. Now I'm just waiting for the hard copy of the letter. With some auspicious aid, I've gotten over one of the biggest hurdles in this lengthy process.

Last week I had coffee with a friend who is a fantastically experienced creative writing instructor and editor, and over the course of our chat I shed some fears about writing fiction. There's a novel that's been rolling around in my head for several years now, and I haven't had the courage to really start it because it's such an important story to me, one that I believe has to be told, and I'm terrified of screwing it up. I love this story. It's a bit of folklore that has haunted me since childhood, and over the course of my life it keeps creeping back into my consciousness. I've come into an awareness of its universality. Writing it down and fleshing it out intimidates me. My friend told me to just write it, that passion for the story matters, and the rest will work out in the editng process. It's still slow going in these earlier stages, but I'm working it out mentally in ways that I hadn't been able to before, being blocked by fear. It may take a month or a year or ten to get this manuscript onto paper, but it will happen.

God bless these people. It's good to feel like I'm not going it alone.

Escribo, escribo

2009-06-10T08:16:00.002-06:00

The two parts of my life that suck right now:

1. I am sending out résumés like mad and still have no job.

2. After a nice stint of around eight years free of them, I started have panic attacks again about a week ago. I've had two now, and I hate them. They're awful in their moment, but mostly I hate them because they're a sign that I'm cracking up and they make me feel like a wus that can't handle life. Luckily I have a mostly-full bottle of anti-anxiety sedatives that the good doctor prescribed for me last fall. I used only one pill the week of my comps, but I'm glad I kept the rest in the drawer.

Some other parts of my life that rock right now:

1. My husband (this is always, not just right now).

2. After an icky stint of writer's block, I've broken free and am writing again. A dear editor friend sent me a wonderful exercise for sketching a novel. It's proven useful. So, I'm writing that novel I've been joking about for a while, the one I swore I'd never really write. It's taking shape and my excitement about it is super-nerdy, even for me. I'm planning a couple of other novels when this one gets going. I still have to flesh out the plan for that non-fiction book, but it's finally coming together. Most importantly at present, my research proposals have moved beyond "ugly mess" to "workable".

3. The data collection stage of the current research project is up and running. I love my data.

4. I think I'm on track for my big intimidating scholarship/grant application. God bless the offices at CU that still help alums.

5. The seeds I planted ten days ago have finally sprouted.

So, I'm hopelessly unemployed, but I'm keeping busy.

poquito a poco, ¿progreso?

2009-06-01T11:44:00.005-06:00

Still no job offers, but my CV looks lovely (thanks Aunt Tam!) and will be sent out in multiples to various intitutions of higher education this very afternoon. So, something is happening. Now, if only I could find something to tide us over for the rest of the summer. . .

I've spent the last half hour on the laughably named "servicio de cliente" line for our bank in Mexico, trying desperately to get a bank statement. The poor girl just couldn't get it into her head that we wanted it sent to the U.S., and that I can't just drive over to my local branch at the moment. She transferred me to an English speaker, and now my husband is dealing with her and seeming to have better luck. I love Mexico, but somedays I am exasperated by Mexico, even when I'm not there. It's similar to the relationship I have with the U.S., but one of the two is home, at least.

I realized something a few months ago that I never posted: if I take apart the name of our former residence, completely ignoring its true etymology, I come up with something like this: peñ-asco. Ha! Porque me da asco. Ay, el asco que me daba! I know, if you don't speak Spanish you don't get it, but it means something like, "Wow, but that rocky place sure is nauseating".

But I'm back in my nation of citizenship, jobless but without necessity of a work visa, and hopeful that something will come up shortly.

And a regretful(?) notice to Rocketgirl: don't hold your breath for us join you in your prospective Wisconsin anytime in the near future. Sorry.

Suspendida

2009-05-30T10:52:00.004-06:00

It's been nearly a full month since I've posted, and even though not much has changed I feel ought to say something. You know, for posterity and all that nonsense.

I'm still in the ranks of the unemployed and our savings is slowly draining. Unfortunately neither of us can apply for unemployment benefits; I graduated and failed to get a job, and my husband resigned. Dangit. The job market really is awful here. I'm hopeful for teaching gigs in the fall, but until then the mortage is still due on the fifteenth of every month, and student loans are coming due. The word "forbearance" hovers in my thoughts. We have no health insurance, and without it the bare minimum of my prescriptions costs over $200 per month. Ouch. I know I shouldn't single-handedly determine which drugs and can and cannot do without, but I can't afford to pay a doctor out-of-pocket right now, and it's not like I haven't been managing my own medications for years. My slim wallet makes the decision easier. I got home from the pharmacy the other day and just cried.

In other downer news, one of my cousins commited suicide recently. The funeral was earlier this week, and it was a rough one. Weeping, wailing, and a cardboard homily that failed to console anyone. The Catholic Church has become a little more pragmatic about giving funeral masses to suicides and now allows it, at least in this diocese, and when somebody ponies up and pays for the mass. It's cynical of me, but I observe that doctrines are prone to increasing maleability when those who hand them down are in a dire financial situation. I'd like to know what cruel, uncompassionate sadist of an early church father invented the doctrine that suicides go straight to hell and the policy that they can't be buried in hallowed ground. Way to blame the victim and torture the bereaved souls of the family. What happened to God as a loving Father who judges us not only by our actions, but by our hearts? I hardly think that an otherwise good and loving person, who but for unbearable emotional anguish would gladly have gone on living, will be judged so harshly. That's my take on it, anyway. I, for one, do not count my cousin's soul as lost to damnation. On a more personal note, even though I hadn't been close to this cousin in many years, his death was an ugly reminder to me of what I'm up against. Is it for better or for worse that these things run in families? For me, it increases both the comfort and anxiety factors.

But enough of the negative. On the upside, I got to see some family that I hadn't seen in a while. I wish it had been under better circumstances, of course. These things are bittersweet. Joblessness means that I had the whole day to go to the funeral and back, and that I have time to spend with family and friends while I wait for someone to pay attention to my résumé. Now that we're back I realize that I was completely justified the degree to which I missed my friends and my Colorado life while we were in exile in that rare part of Mexico that is both ugly and unfriendly. The beach was nice, but friends are so much better.

It's good to be home, even if my life doesn't seem to be moving.

Esperando. . .no sé

2009-05-01T16:47:00.001-06:00

I suppose I ought to say something since I haven’t posted in a while, but I’m not sure what to say. I’m happy to be home. I’m happy to have left Mexico before this swine-flu media mess made the border crossing potentially stickier. I’m happy to be back among so many friends.

There are worries here, of course. At the moment, we’re both unemployed. I’m looking for work and doing some of that research that I didn’t have time to do while I was getting my MA. Meanwhile, my husband is studying to take the state Bar Exam at the end of July and feeling out work opportunities. It’s funny—since we’ve gotten back several people have told us what a lousy economy we’re coming back to, and what a difficult time this is to be looking for work. Ha. They have no idea. I want to tell them how awful things are in small Mexican resort towns where the economy depends almost solely on tourism, how relatively safe things are in a diversified employment market with minimum wage laws. I’m not saying the job market is great here, because it isn’t, but it’s a far cry better than Peñasco.

I feel a little like my life is in a hover pattern right now, and I’m not quite sure what’s next. Work, hopefully. Health insurance and access to a prescription for anti-depressants, hopefully. I’m still hovering on the edge of starting a couple of books, but at the moment I’m focusing instead on some research proposals and getting started with the research itself because those things are more concrete and less difficult to articulate than some of the other ideas knocking around in my head. I can be an very, very organized person, but sometimes it’s hard for me to bring my ideas down out of the ether and organize them into something coherent and readable. Of course, I don’t want to discuss any of my ideas in such a public forum because I’m completely paranoid about being plagiarized, or just plain robbed of my ideas before I’m able to pounce on getting them published.

I’ve spent most of the day gathering information to apply for a big scholarship. It would cover my research expenses, including travel, for nearly a year. Competitive, of course, and the application process is unbelievably long and complicated. Cross your fingers for me. If I get this, I can walk into just about any PhD program i choose when the research is done. That's what they tell me, anyway.

I’m still feeling a little lost, but at least the fog is clearing.

La vanidad

2009-04-24T13:26:00.002-06:00

The other night my husband had the channel on one of those cable news shows where people argue at high volume. That evening, the topic was Miss California’s statement about gay marriage, and a panel of pundits were loudly taking turns (a term I use generously) defending her and tearing her apart.

The point that everyone missed: this is the Miss America Pageant. My husband’s initial reaction to the whole situation, even before analyzing what she had to say, was "I can’t believe they still have that thing. Why does anyone care what a beauty contestant thinks?" Indeed. Why do we still have that thing? I know some people think that Miss America hearkens back to a more wholesome time, but there has never been anything wholesome about it. Any way you cut it, it is public debasing and exploitation of women who, seeking validation in something so superficial and fleeting as physical appearance, hollow-headedly conspire in their own objectification. Miss America reinforces our society’s skewed perception of women as mere pretty pleasure-givers. Proponents of beauty pageants argue that they teach self-confidence. Hooey. They undermine self-confidence by teaching that a woman’s value lies in being Barbie-grade “beautiful”, and that the girl with the shiniest teeth and best bikini-body wins in life. By that standard, Mother Teresa with her imperfect teeth is not a role model, and neither is anyone whose belly is a little saggy from bringing a child into the world, nor anyone whose nails are less than manicure-perfect from hard work. ¿Qué? Beauty pageants reduce the value of femininity to sparkly dresses, tiaras, and camera-perfect make-up and hair. The pseudo-profound questions that the judges ask them are a mockery of the true intelligence and articulate expression that so many women cultivate.

I’m not saying pretty is bad. I’m not saying that a person, male or female, shouldn’t take care of their appearance (and hygiene, please). A good haircut or a good dress can help a person feel more confident, but it shouldn’t be the main source of confidence. What I’m saying is that the pursuit of beauty shouldn’t swallow up a person’s identity, and that it should never define a society’s value-judgment scale of womanhood. If we insist on judging, there are better measuring rods out there.

In her later news interview, Miss California reaffirmed and defended her stance on gay marriage. In a way I admire her for standing up for her beliefs, for refusing to take the politically correct position. What I don’t admire is her phrasing, her insistence that she was being "biblically" correct. Did she miss all those parts about modesty? About vanity? About looking not on the outward appearance, but on the heart? The Bible euphemistically refers to homosexuality as "abusing" the body. Would she defend parading in a bikini before the eyes of a lascivious crowd as something other than abuse of the body? Is that body, made public property, a worthy vessel of the Spirit? If she's going to claim moral high ground, maybe she should pay more attention to holy writ than to whether her roots need a touch-up. Admittedly I’m no saint, but I am suspicious of the soundness of the moral foundation of someone whose heart is so set on the vanity and praise of the world.

Was it a loaded question? Yes. An inappropriate question for the venue? Probably. Maybe she didn’t win because of what she said. Entirely possible. And maybe she didn’t win because the other girl had better hair or eye make-up or perkier boobs. We’re kidding ourselves if we say that the quality of these women’s minds matters to their audience. I have to wonder, what weight do our views on marriage, heterosexual or otherwise, carry in a nation where we still celebrate such an assault on real womanhood? Just wondering.

Distracción

2009-04-16T09:59:00.005-06:00

There is something freaky going on with my husband's job, and it distresses me. Please don't ask questions, I don't know the answer. Given that the situation is delicate and I don't understand it anyway, I will write about something absolutely unrelated. Our life in Peñasco is mired in confusion, but the Mississippi of fiction is mired in something much juicier.

My husband is a patient and un-jealous soul. He is resigned to the fact that when I pick up a novel that really grabs me he will lose me a little during the reading of it, and nobly fails to feel the least bit threatened when my heart goes adolescently pitter-pat for a man that exists only in the literary ether.

I am currently reading Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!, and I am in love. I am in love with the prose, the story, the words, the eloquent half-page run-on sentences, and the flawed people that populate the pages. That, and I have a desperate crush on Charles Bon.

Charles Bon represents the worst of all that has ever made me swoon, long before I matured to associating “sexy” with stability, work ethic, motivation, fidelity, and an absence of relationship drama (all of which is not to say I don’t love my husband’s sexy hair). But I am seduced. In the same way that Jason Compson Sr. tells Quentin how Charles didn’t have to seduce Judith Sutpen because he’d already gotten Henry under his spell and so Henry seduced his sister with the idea of Charles on his behalf, so Faulkner has vicariously seduced me with his description of Charles, and the Frenchman didn’t have to lift a finger. Jason Sr. describes Bon’s apathy (almost ennui), his careless way, and I think it’s kind of sexy. Is it surprising that I find his sentiments toward his bought woman tender and magnanimous? That there is appeal to his pragmatic argument that they, women reared solely to love and be loved, are the last truly chaste women in the Americas? That his laissez-faire approach to life (because who cares about the Adam Smith and a free trade economy?) makes me want to sit under the oaks, smelling the magnolias and watching the river crawl past? It’s that mellow c’est-la-vie that makes Louisiana creole culture so appealing. It would be that way even without the food (and you all know how I feel about food. Oh, pralines, chicory and beignets, bisque and etoufée. . .)

New Orleans, the city itself, is a seducer, and by association are its natives. The sultriness of the air paws at you. A New Orleans drawl pauses to kiss the earlobes before the sound makes its way inside the ear. It is a low, soft voice that obliges the listener to lean in a little closer to the speaker, making even a conversation of virtuous content feel sensual and intimate. Even a low laugh from grey-eyed grandmother calling me "bou" or "chère" is warm and rich like molasses. It is a distinct voice. That is how I hear Charles Bon’s voice. Even without imagining dark creole features and penetrating eyes, the drawl tugs at me. I heard that voice in my head when I read the letter written in stove polish.

The stove-polish-ink-on-pilfered-French-watermark, the un- love letter, drew me in. It is devoid of frilly romance, devoid of compliments (aside from "I will not insult you by saying". . .) and I love yous. Its pragmatism, its fatalism, its honesty, its eloquence make those pretenses superfluous. The fatalistic laissez-faire is infectious, so much so that when Henry kills Charles by the front steps the seduced reader fails to hurt, except for the loss of such a lovely being. The blank tragedy of it is sultry, the kind of emotion experienced in the dusk with the eyes half-closed. Judith understood, and so it is the letter that remains, not what WAS but what IS, passed to Mrs. Compson to safeguard that letter’s moment of stark ironic beauty.
It’s a good thing I was officially sworn off men for a while when I lived in Louisiana, and probably a better thing I didn’t spend much time in New Orleans. Listening to that voice for days uninterrupted would have gotten me sooner or later. Some women may go in for more understandably romantic types like Edward Cullen, and that certainly makes loads more sense (and don’t even ask how I know that name, blame it on mass media because I have not wasted any precious reading time on that book). Leave it to a supernerd like me to get sucked in by a pragmatist, bigamist, French-creole beauty of a man in a decidedly unromantic bit of prose. Grotesquely, I vaguely remember having a hopeless crush Quentin Compson for the intricate, if depraved, inner workings of his brain in that last day before his suicide, when I read The Sound and the Fury in high school. I suspect that was unhealthy, but his mind is so very, very lovely.

Having spent time in the Mississippi of flesh and blood and terra firma, I do not have particularly warm feelings for the place. But Jefferson, Mississippi I may not mind, for all its flaws and the wrecked lives of its inhabitants. From the distance drawn by pages and print and fiction it’s a beautiful place (and right now anything greener than Peñasco is a little bit of heaven). From that same distance Charles Bon is the most beautiful man (not) alive. (Be assured that my husband holds my off-paper equivalent of that esteem).

Angelinos

2009-04-14T18:11:00.003-06:00

My husband and I got back Sunday night from a quick road trip to Los Angeles. He only had a few days off at the tail end of Holy Week (not two weeks like the rest of the country, thanks again un-Mexico). We had originally planned to spend the time kicking around southeastern Arizona ghost towns with the in-laws, the highlight of which was to (hopefully) be a night at a haunted B&B in Bisbee which, apart from the usual spooks, features a hooker-haint who reportedly entertains guests with an otherworldly strip-tease from the foot of the bed. The in-laws had not been informed of these particular details; they are not believers like us, and we figured we’d mention it (or not) after the fact, if we managed to stay a night there.

Alas (or not so deep a sigh), plans changed. My husband’s great uncle died, and my in-laws decided to go to the funeral in L.A. instead. We decided to join them A) out of respect, B) because we’re not sure how many more opportunities we’ll have to seen my husband’s aged grandfather in this world, and C) why the heck not? Neither of us had ever been to that part of Cali before (he used to live in the Bay Area, but had not ventured that far south). I admit that at first I was hesitant; the image I’d always had of L.A. was a plasticky one, and didn’t think I’d find much to do since I’m not in the slightest interested in buying a StarMap and stalking the Pretty People. Gack. I couldn’t care less. What’s a Hollywood-apathetic girl to do? LOTS, we discovered. Much to my pleasant surprise, I *heart* L.A. We seriously tossed around the idea of living there. Quite seriously. Now I want desperately to find a job lucrative enough to take up residence in Santa Monica, maybe Pasadena. More accurately, I want my husband the attorney to bring home sufficient bacon, and post-PhD I’ll get a gig at one of the many universities. Because, let’s be honest, a humanities professor is never going to make that kind of money.

In retrospect, the drive out may be evidence of a lapse in good judgment. We left fair Peñasco at a late hour and drove through the night in shifts, pulling into the L.A. metro area around 6am. Ouch. We stopped in a Kmart parking lot and tried to sleep a bit, to no avail. So, we found an ATM that dispensed spendable green dollars instead of multi-colored pesos, procured some breakfast, loaded up on diet Coke, and made a day of it. By the time we checked into our hotel late that afternoon we were zombies and it took my thirty-something body longer to recover than I’ll admit, but we still managed to have a rip-roaring good time.

Among the joys we crammed in:

-Driving around the city and taking in the view of Angelino humanity in its mind-boggling heterogeny

-The Getty Museum, where in the portrait gallery we discovered my brother’s eerie twin, a Fulano-de-tal 16th-century financial advisor to Carlos V

-Lunch at one of those macro-biotic vegan cafés, because we needed to cleanse after eight hours on the road. After salad-spare weeks in Peñasco, it was delicious mouthfuls of green heaven.

-Strolling Santa Monica Boulevard, including some shopping in which my husband scouted out a very pet-able velvet jacket for me. Why is it that my husband is always the one to spot my best shoes and jackets?

-The carnival rides on Santa Monica pier and requisite funnel cake (after the rides).

-People-watching on Venice Beach.

-Truly talented street performers, including Russian acrobats!!

-Black bean soup, jerked chicken and fried plantains at a Caribbean joint.

-The LaBrea tarpits and the Page Museum. I discovered:
1. I love sabertooth cats just as much as I did as a little kid;
2. While they may have gone extinct millennia before the Grimm Brothers and a continent away, paleolithic Dire Wolves are straight out of a fairy-tale nightmare;
3. I have a new respect for paleontologists, particularly the black ooze diggers, since during the course of NO archaeological excavation did I ever get as sticky-filthy as they do.

-Navigating Pasadena to meet a friend, followed by his guided driving tour of much of L.A. In comparison with my current environs, even the seedier areas didn’t seem so bad, given their paved roads, minimal trash in the streets, and lack of third-world dogs.

-Giving gursha to my husband and aforementioned friend in a dimly lit and delicious Ethiopian restaurant (if you’re scandalized, get your mind out of the gutter and look it up). Quote of the evening: "If I’d known what kind of food they have over there, I’d never have sent money to the Ethiopians when I was a kid". –Our friend, after swallowing a mouthful of spiced lamb and lentils.

-Live Coltrane-imposter jazz at a club in VanNuys.

-Copious quantities of ice cream and gelato.

-And yes, we spent a little less than an hour in the bustle in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and got an eyeful of the freakshow in the surrounding blocks. Mostly I was surprised at how tiny Carmen Miranda’s footprints were in the concrete.

-But we didn’t get to go on The Price Is Right. No chance for Drew Carey to tell me to ComeOnDown!! This is why we have to go back. (That and a garlic restaurant I heard about).

All of that, and we squeezed in the great-uncle’s half-day funeral and some good visiting time with my husband’s family. The interment was very nice and good words were said, but the cemetery was insane. It sits on a steep hillside overlooking the valley. It has a beautiful view (for what that may matter to the deceased) but the graves are set in a precarious slope and I worried for the welfare of the more senior members of the family and for all of our ankles as we hiked up to the open grave. I guess when level real estate is at a premium, one invents (barely) workable solutions.

So, I know I have to take into account that I’m living in a place that makes all infrastructured civilization hover on paradise, but I really was taken with the city. Yes, the traffic is hell, but better than Atlanta or Mexico City. The beach is just as pretty as Peñasco (but much colder, *shiver*). The views are gorgeous. The people are friendly. The air was surprisingly clean (maybe the smog is a summer problem?). The weather was beautiful. It is refreshingly cosmopolitan—even mentioning the ethnic diversity seems redundant. Fresh vegetables and fruits are plentiful year-round. "Organic" and "locavore" are options, not mystery concepts. Name a cuisine and it’s available to satisfy my cravings and curiosity. Every heat-level chile known to man is in somebody’s cooking. It is the Vanity Fair; the seeker can find anything and everything she might want or need. I understand why so many people want to live there. Maybe me, too.

Déjenme en paz

2009-04-08T14:51:00.002-06:00

I'm having a crappy day today. I just am. This happens sometimes. And here's the silver lining: When I live in a place with few friends and one close one, the only person to look at me and ask "are you alright?" is my husband (that would be my one close friend). No friendly acquaintances or polite strangers picking at the cracks in my unconvincing I'm-okay mask. Heck, I don't even have to wear one! It's a relief, really.

I'm an optimist.

¿Por qué no la compartes?

2009-04-05T12:30:00.001-06:00

Mexicans must think I am the stingiest person in town.

Silly norteamericana that I am, I assume that my neighbors prefer that I keep it down. That’s how it is at home, right? I shut the windows and keep the volume at what I think is a reasonable level.

Not my neighbors. When they put on some music, they open the windows and crank it so high that the already dissonant strains of banda are further distorted—the volume at which both bass and treble buzz. Unfortunately, buildings here are not typically insulated against either weather or sound, and so it comes right through the walls. And it goes late into the night, even on weeknights. Businesses do this, too, so that when you drive past the music rattles your wheels and your teeth. It certainly gets my attention.

I am dubious that it has ever crossed their minds that there exists a person such as I who cannot stand banda or norteña, because it seems to be universally adored in these parts. How on earth could someone not love this music? If you want to try it out yourself, search “Los Tigres del Norte” or “Alicia Villareal” on youtube and you will not only hear it, but be dazzled by the costumes that I, in my close-mindedness, have deemed ridiculous. (Parenthetically, if you want to see some scary-tight mariachi pants, look for Alejandro Fernández and you’ll get some cheesy ballads out of it, too).

So now I feel stingy, because I don’t share. In fairness, I’m afraid that if my music competes with theirs an ugly volume war will break out. I have memories of this from my freshman year in the dorms. Would they mind, though? Maybe it’s unfair to say this, but banda and norteña are already so cacophonous to my ear that it might not make a difference. Sure, add more sound! they might tell me. Let’s all bring something to share! It's a bad musical potluck where the flavors of all the dishes clash. I don’t, though. Out of shyness and a desire not to offend my neighbors (without really knowing that it would offend them), I keep my music to myself.

I am beginning to suspect that ¡sube la radio! is as important in north Mexican culture as ¡Viva Villa!.

¿Mentirosos?

2009-04-03T20:38:00.001-06:00

There’s a little something about the culture here that’s been frustrating me. I know that I should accept it, that I’m the foreigner that therefore I should be the one to make the adjustment. That’s all good and well. Fine. I’ll say that I have adjusted to it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be frustrated by it. I’ve overcome exasperation, at least, and am settled at annoyed acceptance.

Here it is: in my book, Mexicans lie. Only the don’t think they’re lying. They would likely be extremely offended if I called them on it. Lying, you see, is deliberately and maliciously obscuring the truth. They aren’t doing that. It’s the opposite of malicious. I’ve gathered that they believe they’re making sure I’m happy by telling me what they think I want to hear. They are going out of their way to make sure I don’t get upset by telling me something unpleasant. In a way, it’s very considerate of them.

When I moved to Mexico for the first time in 2003, I learned early on that keeping things pleasant and making sure everyone is happy is an overarching cultural value here. I think this is part of why it can take so long to get some things done here; you can’t proceed until you’re sure that everyone involved is not only on the same page, but happy about it. I’ve observed repeatedly that meetings, conversations, classes, dinner—anything, really—stops and hovers at smoothing over upset feelings, and we can’t move on until we’re satisfied that no one in the room is upset. Reflecting on it now I think I’ve unconsciously picked up on that in my teaching, because I find myself repeating “¿todo bien?” and looking around the room for consternation. If people don’t grasp it, I give additional examples, alternate explanations, memory tricks, whatever works, until the confusion passes. I don’t need them to be happy about it, though. They can loathe the subjunctive with their whole souls for all I care, as long as they can conjugate and know when to use it.

This happens frequently when I’m trying to get my hands on something that I need, and the store is out of it, or the person I need to talk to isn’t in. For example, I go to the grocery store, actually several of them, only to find that everyone is out of tomatillos. Yes, we are in Mexico and there are no tomatillos. In the wasteland of Sonora where nothing will grow, everything has to be trucked in (it gets pricey, hence the outrageous cost of living here) and the trucks aren’t always reliable. They get held up at state and international borders, military checkpoints, tollpoints, and other nonsense that hinders efficiency. I digress—back to the tomatillos. So, I ask the produce guy if they have more in the back. No. When will there be more? This afternoon, he says. Naïvely satisfied with his answer, I come back in the afternoon. No tomatillos. This goes on for three days, every day someone telling me that the truck will be here later in the day. Finally I find some at a fruitstand. They are sad looking but acceptable, and I take them home and roast them and turn them into the salsa that I have been madly craving for four days (by the way, convenience foods haven’t made inroads here, so I have to make most things from scratch. That’s right, I can’t buy fresh salsa at the deli. What deli?) Even if they don’t carry what I’m looking for, never have and likely never will, they smile at me, shrug, and say “tal vez mañana”. Mentiras. Which leads to another important lesson for living in Mexico: “Mañana” doesn’t necessarily mean tomorrow. It means, “not today”.

There is an exception: at the bank, they are straightforward with the truth. Of course, you can’t fudge telling someone that the wire transfer number is correct when the transfer won’t go through, and you can’t tell someone that their debit card has arrived when the mail from Mexico City hasn’t shown up for over a week and a half. So, they tell me what I don’t want to hear, and yes, the truth is frustrating. I can take it in stride, though. It helps that they deliver the disappointing news with the sweetest voice they can muster.

And that’s my culture clash. I am still the foreigner (and how). No matter how Latina I may be, I grew up in mainstream culture in the United States. It’s difficult to reconcile my black-and-white, Puritan North American ideals of truth and lies to the gentler Mexican concern for avoiding the unpleasant, even if the solution is short-lived. I hate to admit this, but despite speaking the language, trying to understand and adapt to the culture, blah, blah, blah, I am still an Ugly American. True, I don’t go in for loud public drunkenness and insisting that everything be done in English and US dollars, but I accepted some time ago that I will never go native in Mexico, especially not rural northern Mexico. My first instinct is still to say what’s on my mind, and to share what information I have when someone asks for it, even if the truth isn’t happy-making, because I assume that when someone asks a direct question they want a direct answer. If I don’t know, I say so. So, my automatic reaction is to think that Mexicans lie. I’m sure they think I am rude and blunt (with some justification). So, I try to bite my tongue and resign myself to repeated petitions for goods and services I might require, for people who dodge my questions with a pleasant voice and a big smile.

So, um, thanks? Gracias, México, por preocuparse tanto por mi bienestar. Sé que solo quieren que lo pase bien.

La mera verdad

2009-03-28T21:05:00.003-06:00

As previously mentioned, I recently updated my résumé and CV. It makes me feel so pretentious and slightly dishonest, using all that drivel-licious terminology that abounds in résumés. Yes, I accomplished the stuff I said I did, but there’s so much more to the story. Here are a few examples of what I’d really like to have said:

Spanish Instructor, University of *****
-Introduced students to the idea that communism isn’t so bad, relative to fascism and/or the imperial yoke.
-Let slip that practicing Spanish conversational skills while slightly tipsy (though not drunk) is a great way to gauge how much you really do know when you’re uninhibited.
-Showed films and played music that would get me totally fired in a K-12 setting. “Me gusta marijuana, me gustas tú”. Gracias, Manu Chau, for your fine illustration of the use of indirect object pronoun structures. And seriously, Almodóvar nudity is only sexual in really creepy ways. What I am supposed to do, show them children’s shows like Xuxa? The woman was a porn star. At least Todo sobre mi madre gives them a peek at Spain’s post-Franco, wahoo, free-for-all cultural liberalism.

ESL Instructor, ***** Hispanic Community Center
-Developed a serious chip on my shoulder about those Chicano Power jerks who tell me that I’m not Hispana enough and accuse me of having "brown shame". Because, you know, it’s not like there are non-Mexican-American Hispanics in the world.

File Clerk, ***** Oil & Gas
-Lost last shreds of tolerance for mind-numbing paperwork.
-Lost last shreds of tolerance for petrochemical engineers and geologists who think they’re smarter than the rest of us, yet stare at me blankly when I make a quip about anything non-scientific. Say, a witty literature joke. Shakespeare who? Faulkner what? Isn’t that a dirty word?
-Almost turned to drink, but applied for grad school instead.

Reading tutor, ***** Elementary school
-Pulled kindergarteners’ fingers out of their noses and other orifices all stinkin’ day.
-Became adept at wiping noses without getting the boogers on my fingers. (If you're wondering, yes, I washed my hands. My poor chapped hands).
-Expanded my vocabulary of childish insults, way beyond "poopyhead".
-Headed off drug deals between kids who pass stuff for their parents. Those brown bags were not always lunch, I tell you.

I wonder if I’d get a job with that version. It does highlight some of my more unique experiences and qualifications, after all.

Cohetes

2009-03-25T18:10:00.003-06:00

My husband has a friend who is getting a master's in development at UCLA, and since he's a relatively short drive away he and some friends came down and spent last weekend with us. When people are in town to visit us we tend to shell out a little more cash on entertainment, to make sure our guests enjoy themselves. So, we eat out more, go out on fishing boats, rent ATVs to ride around the dunes (not my idea), etc. Oh, and buy fireworks. Domestically produced fireworks. I pause here to remind my fair readers that quality control and manufacturing regulations are not the what they are north of the border.

There is a bizarre, pyromaniacal pleasure to living in a place where recreational explosives are totally legal and can be bought on the roadside. This was our first adventure with Mexican fireworks, which have alarmingly short wicks. In the desert around town there's nothing to burn. Except us, that is. Nobody caught on fire, but we did have a few that went off right next to our heads, and more than a few bottle rocks that shot not up, but horizontally, sometimes straight at us. One shot straight under the car, and for an arrhythmia-inducing moment we all worried that it would go off under the gas tank. I guess it didn't, because it's all in one piece and unscorched. It was a hoot. It reminded me of younger, more devious days driving down long country roads, shooting bottle rockets out the car windows with wild cousins. Those were the days.

Sigh. There are some aspects of our little strip of desert-meets-the-sea that I will miss. Some. Thank heaven for Wyoming.

El curriculum

2009-03-19T18:30:00.002-06:00

Ah, the tanking Mexican economy. It's predicted that the peso will fall to twenty-to-one against the dollar by summer's end. I predict sooner. To fill you in, when I was in Guad last summer the peso had fallen just barely below ten-to-one last summer, where it had been in a steady hover for years. When I was there in 2003, some days it got close to nine-to-one. We avoided changing money or withdrawing with US ATM cards on those days. This January, 2009, it was at twelve. February, 13.5. By March first, it was at fifteen. Today, it's at 15.5. It pains me every time I make a transfer from Santander to our US account. I miss the ten-to-one days.

The local economy is really in trouble. So much so that I'm looking for jobs in Colorado. We're not sure how long it will take my husband to wrap up here, but now we're old hands and spending a few months apart. It still sucks, but at least we know we can live through it successfully.

This, of course, is requiring me to update my résumé and my CV. I haven't done that in, oh, about three years. Gack. I thought it would be fairly easy, until I realized that my old CV was on my old hard drive, the one that crashed a little over a year ago. An IT angel at my husband's office was able to recover my non-duplicable data and sound files, but the rest was a loss. Imagine my bitter surprise when I found that it was not, in fact, backed up on my thumb drive as I had hoped.

So, I have spent the last couple of days reconstructing my employment and academic history for the last ten years. Gack. It's as hard as it sounds. God bless the internet. It's unsettling how many names I have forgotten, and even the name of an organization I worked for.

Cross your fingers for me. I'm bilingual and bi-literate, surely someone will hire me. . .

La muerte, figurativa y literal

2009-03-11T16:21:00.005-06:00

High time I updated. Much has happened, but I've decided to avoid a list (a numbered one, anyway).

I took a trip to the States. It was supposed to be a short one, and the plan was simple: one-way ticket to Salt Lake, buy my sister-in-law's SUV, drive it over to Colorado to register it, hang with some friends, tie up a couple of loose ends at the University, and drive back to Peñasco. How complicated can that have been?

Getting to SLC was fine, but a storm blew in and I ended up staying there a couple of days longer than planned. It was pleasant, though, since I was staying with some beloved friends that I hadn't seen in ages, and we had a nice time together. There was some drama in their lives at the time, involving a father in the hospital and a hysterical mother not taking it well, but I'm glad to say I was able to help out with some things and alleviate a wee bit of the load. Once the storm had passed I took off on I-80 across southern Wyoming, and just east of Ralston the wind started to blow. I had forgotten: in Wyoming falling snow isn't the problem, rather the fallen slow that blows across the roads and creates white-outs and icy highways. I spun out on the interstate, and by some blessing ended up unharmed with my back end in the median, perfectly poised to pull back onto the road once I'd started breathing normally again. I said a wee prayer, remembered that I now had 4-wheel drive at my disposal, turned it on and proceed the next fifty miles at about 25-30mph, with sometimes only a few yards of visibility. I arrived in Denver otherwise uneventfully.

My father had called my the night before to let me know that my grandfather had quit eating and drinking and had lost consciousness, and would probably pass in a few days (in accordance with his living will, he was given no artificial nutrition or hydration at this point. 90-some year-old men should be allowed to die when their bodies tell them it's time). I was glad that I would be in town for the pending funeral, since I wouldn't have been able to make it had I been here in Mexico. However, when the doctors told us that he wouldn't go long, they hadn't factored in the Montoya effect. We're a stubborn, long-lived bunch, and he went six more days before passing. Naturally, I stuck around waiting for his death and the funeral. My father spent most of that time in New Mexico while we waited in Denver, and he was there with his father in the moment that he passed. We shared sweet memories of him, especially of what a funny, smart man he had been before succumbing to the Alzheimer's. Nobody should have to suffer the final stages for as long as he did. Again, he's a Montoya. Oddly (or perhaps not), I didn't cry for him. There were some tender moments, especially during the funeral, when I got a bit teary-eyed, but I haven't cried for his death, and I doubt that I ever will. It was a release. My father stated it well, several months ago when we were driving back from having visited him: I have already mourned my father, he said. The part of him that I knew is gone, and I have already mourned him. I will not mourn the shell of his body when he goes. Well-stated, indeed.

The funeral was beautiful, sweet. There were some awkward moments, such as when my self-blinded, unrepentant uncle saw face-to-face the children of the first family that he abandoned so many years ago-- and when one of his daughter from his second family (bless them for the good people they are despite him) graciously introduced herself to her unknown half-siblings. Mostly, though, it was wonderful. My grandfather's wife has been our angel in these long years (he remarried a few years after my grandmother's death in 1989). It was the first time I had been to a graveside with full military honors. My mother's father and one of her brothers were buried with them, but I wasn't able to attend their funerals (a sad casualty of my globetrotting). My grandfather served 33 consecutive months in battle, making his way on foot from Algeria to Normandy, then to the eastern front in Germany (he took a boat across the Med, of course) and was awarded multiple Bronze Stars. He was an honorable man, always. A man without guile.

The long stay for the funeral permitted me to spend more time in Colorado, and though I didn't see everyone I'd hoped to I was able to spend more time with friends and family than I'd anticipated. When I finally headed back to Mexico and my husband, I ended up staying an extra two days with my in-laws in Phoenix, laid up with a nasty sinus infection. A stroke of luck, though, that my father-in-law is an otorhinolaryngologist and was just the right person to make it right.

Finally, home to my husband, where I encounter another slow death, a moribund town waiting and praying for plentiful spring-breakers to revive the foundering economy. We are in the middle of spring break for the big Arizona schools, and the streets and beaches are nearly empty. Thank you, prensa amarillista. Thank you, sensationalist US media for making it sound like the entire country is as dangerous as Juarez. Thank you for driving away tourists. Thank you for fatally wounding the economy of Mexican resort towns in a nation that depends heavily on tourism. And a special thanks goes out to the Dean of Students at the University of Arizona, who on unfounded rumors and grisly fantasies issued a letter to UofA students and their paranoid parents warning them specifically not tot travel to Puerto Peñasco for Spring Break. Thank you. Thank you for destroying jobs and families and businesses and whole towns. Give yourselves a well-deserved pat on the back.

Lola, who feels perfectly safe in her present Mexican home, loathes the self-centered blindness of the US media. Jódanse, CNN and Fox news and all the rest of you.

Medusas

2009-02-11T14:46:00.002-07:00

To restore (or, at least preserve) my sanity, I am trying to get into the habit of talking walk-jogs on the beach in the mornings. I follow the tide calendar to see when the tide is low, so the sand is compacted but still requires some effort, and I try to get in a few miles a day, a few days a week. When the tide is really low, like today, I get a bit distracted by wonderful creepy crawlies in the tide pools. Sometimes it's just hundreds of hermit crabs, but they're still pretty interesting.

I saw a dead jellyfish on the beach this morning during my walk. It wasn't even in a tide pool, it was trapped far up on the sand, left there by last night's extremely high tide, stranded and asphyxiated. It looked like a giant glob of mucus, at least a foot across. Huge. Soft. Wet. Squishy-looking. I really, really wanted to poke it, but I restrained myself. I don't trust rural Mexican emergency response to make the connection between a writhing poisoning victim on the beach and the venomous animal lying at her side.

Lola needs a long poking stick.

Símbolos

2009-01-22T14:56:00.005-07:00

Everyone out there, what do you know about semiotics?

I'm looking into a PhD program at the Universidad de Guadalajara, in part because I adore the city but mostly because I think the program is right up my alley. It's a program in Literature and Linguistics, two of my great loves, and I wouldn't necessarily have to choose between them as I did with the MA. So, I'm trying to brush up on all those literary theory places where my knowledge is scant. I say "brush up", but wow this is a big job. I'm trying to settle on a theoretical bent that suits me and my interdisciplinary approach, so I'm looking at philosophy-of-language theorists. I also think that's a suitable approach to my favored area of Hispanic Literature: ahem, Colonial. Friends from my program poke fun at me for that, but I love Colonial Lit. There's so much more to it than just the text; so much depends on context. It's a fascinating period to me because, even be it one-sidedly, it documents the collision between such wildly different worlds and worldviews, and the Spanish were scrambling to find a way to express themselves in their Brave New World, and they had to reformulate their Eastern Hemisphere discourse. This meant reorienting and recontextualizing symbolic thinking. As I perceive it, anyway.

So, I'm leaning toward semiotics. It's a bit like semantics and pragmatics (a course I adored in the MA, minus a few opaque lectures), and focuses largely on symbols and contextual meaning. I think I may have found it. . .

I'm starting soft, though. I just started reading Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose, because it's supposed to be the great fictional text in which he shows off the application of the theory in fiction. We'll see if I can grasp it. Then I'm going to read a little more Kristeva, and if I get her then I might take a stab at Barthes, Foucault, Lacan and all those other françoises.

Damn, how I hope I'm zeroing in on a fruitful theoretical approach, one within which I can operate, and perhaps even add to it someday. And oh, how I hope I can grasp it.

Lola will penetrate this novel, dangit. Er, comprehend. I'll stay away from that oh-so-phallic verb for now.

Exceso

2009-01-21T12:14:00.004-07:00

I get mixed messages from fluffy womens' magazines when I stand in line at the grocery store. Consider the following:

Will I really lose weight fast by baking and devouring the oreo layer cake? Which am I supposed to do?

Lola feels weird about being the citizen of a nation where our poor are obese, and where starving ourselves in various ways is a multi-billion dollar industry.

Esperanza, parte II

2009-01-20T15:35:00.004-07:00

I could just complain about how difficult things are here and now, but I don't want to be a broken record. So, I'll say something happy.

President Obama's inauguration speech this morning made me really, really happy. I wish I could have been there. I was so impressed and inspired. It was like a good sermon: Have faith, have hope, now pony up and do something so we can fix this mess together. He's much more eloquent than I am, of course, but I loved that message.

I do have hope. I'm finally truly proud to be an American (though I do remind people here that I am _not_ from Arizona. They're always so shocked that my Spanish is so good, so they believe me about where I'm not from). I have hope that the rest of the world will stop hating us now that they see we're capable of electing someone that isn't an idiot. Not only is he not an idiot, he's honest-to-goodness presidential, world-leader material. I love that he extended an open hand to the world, including the nations willing to unclench their fists. How much more effective and diplomatic than pounding his own fist, like his predecessor! I have hope that the nation will unite under his invitation to pull our act together, together, and to take responsibility and fix our nation. I have hope that we can look past our differences as we work together (I guess that means I should quit knocking Arizonans and other tourists that come to the shores I currently occupy).

If only Mexico could elect someone who could inspire them to pull themselves out of their hole! Then again, maybe I only say such a nasty, jaded thing because I live in Mexico's most unsavory, sad fringes. Ah, the border. . .

If I keep saying things like that, nobody is going to come visit me. We do have lovely, warm beaches.

------------

Jane, as far as books: thank you for your kind offer. I'm in Phoenix this week and my mother-in-law showed me an awesome bookstore called Half-Price Books. It's one of those cool used bookstores, the kind that has a wide selection of far more than ragged cheap sci-fi and romance paperbacks, and doesn't smell like damp basement. It was really cool. I got some books that will make me happy: Faulkner, Hemingway, Eco, Tolstoy, Kristeva. I didn't even spend lots of money. Yay! Sadly, the closest ones to the Jungle are in the Bay Area. Though, it sounds like you've found a nice little joint yourself. And guess what, Rocketgirl-- only two of those books are non-fiction. Are you proud of me?

------------

Lola is going to kick back and read, but not for too long. Then I'm going do something to make the world a better place. Thank you, Mr. President.

Todavía no me acostumbro

2009-01-08T13:26:00.005-07:00

I've been here two weeks and two days now. It feels like it's been much longer, in terms of trying to pass the days. My husband refers to me as the princess locked in her castle all day, which isn't too far off. I know he feels bad about me being here with so few books (and no bookstore within less than 200 miles, so far as we know), a shared car, and so little to do. The beach is still to cold to play there for long and much to cold to get in the water. I have research I should be doing, but right now I'm still in the phase of getting all my background information. Of the dozen books I brought with me, six of them are about the tribe I'll be visiting this spring and their language, and two more are about bilingualism. Also, I should be writing, but I have trouble finding the motiviation/ inspiration/ ánimo/ ganas to pull that off for more than an hour or two a day. I can feel myself starting to slip down that depression slope again, and it seems like I have to pull myself out of it every day. It doesn't help that the anti-depressant I'd been taking is not yet available in Mexico (neither is my birth control, by the way. Lovely). I'm trying, trying, not to let on too much to my husband, because I don't want him to worry about me, but to him I'm transparent. I can't hide a thing, and I know he knows I'm struggling. If I can't force myself be happy for me-- it's familiar, like an old bad habit, to feel listless and depressed-- I can try to be happy for him. I know it means so much to him.

I'm working to find things to be happy about, and a few days ago one fell into our laps. We were out driving around after church on Sunday, and we met a really nice guy, El Yucateco. We got to talking, and it turns out that his wife La Terapeuta is from the states. She also goes to the same church we do, but we hadn't met her yet. She's in the same boat that I am, with no demand for her specialized occupation in this backwater, hence unemployed and at home all day. The other night they invited us over for rosca to celebrate Reyes Magos (normally not celebrated in this cultural wasteland part of the country, but he's from down south). Like good fellow countrymen, we shared the last of our stash of cheddar with them. If you've been stranded in Latin America without good cheese, you understand the significance of that (I thought of you, Rocketgirl). We don't have loads in common but they're really friendly people with great senses of humor. I think we've found friends.

When we were telling people that my husband had gotten a job here, they would say, "Oh, you must be so excited to be going back to Mexico!" Sometimes I would just smile politely, and other times I'd clarify that it's not like the Mexico I know and love. The central plateau it ain't, folks. I explain that it's as though someone had gotten to know the US by living in San Francisco or New York, and then "move back" because their spouse gets a job in some backwater fifty miles outside of Little Rock or Biloxi. Just like SanFran, right?

My cousin accuses me of being of a Mexico snob, and she's right. She's just as guilty, anyway. Her husband's from Leon, outside of Guanajuato. Lovely, lovely area; it's mountainous and green, with little colonial villages tucked into the valleys. Earlier, she did her postgrad in Tucson, and made the occasional seedy border run to Nogales for entertainment. She know the difference. She teases me, but only because she understands.

As the silver lining, I know my marriage is getting stronger because we're passing through this together. My husband's job is challenging in the ways he didn't anticipate, and I'm struggling to figure out what to do with my life now that I'm out of grad school with no job opportunities here. It makes us both a bit more sensitive, and I feel like we're taking better care of each other for it.

Also, we've finally found some good taco stands. Ay, vampiros. . .me hace agua en la boca just thinking about them.

Lola's trying, but this is a tough place to love.

Espero un Prospero Año Nuevo

2009-01-02T17:00:00.002-07:00

In case you were wondering, my excuse for not having written about all the thrilling things that have happened in the last month, is, well, all those thrilling things that happened over the last month. Once again, I will proceed to sum up some significant details of my life in pithy list form.

1. I wrote my two final papers of my MA program. Yes, this means I turned in all the work, it's graded (yay for As!) and I'm officially DONE. It's an odd feeling.

2. I'm also done teaching. I wrapped up the dreaded review for the final exam, my kids did a great job, and once again, we got through another semester with not a single F. Barely, but not a one. They were a good group-- my highest number yet of adult and non-traditional student. We don't get many of those at the Boulder campus, and so it's a treat to have them and their rich life-experience contributions to the class. I miss it already.

3. I complete part of the international move, in the form of a one-way flight with a crammed suitcase and an overweight carry-on stuffed with books. I have now an unofficial (illegal?) Mexican resident. I'll be working on that Visa starting Monday.

4. This means I now live in the same nation and house as my husband. Relief!

5. I'm not really in Mexico, not culturally. More on this later.

6. I spent New Year's Day on a yacht watching dolphins and eating too much. Is this my life? The rest of it is filled with a combination of dust, unavailability of anything besides Mexican food, and mind-blowing sunsets.

By the way, I was wrong about the name of our P.O. Box. It's Gringo _Pass_. More on that later, too. Also by the way, my new book is going to include a highly unscientific survey of people's perception of the word "gringo". Racial epithet, or benign categorization?

Lola isn't sure what to think. More to follow.

Una rosa por otro nombre. . .

2008-12-05T10:21:00.004-07:00

Moving plans have finally been cemented, and I have a one-way ticket with my name on it. I'm really, truly moving to Mexico. Soon.

Though the nation has progressed in numerous ways in the last several decades, Mexican mail service is still notoriously third-world. So, we've got a P.O. Box just on the other side of the border. It's small place; a few bars, gas stations, last-chance-Mexican-auto-insurance offices, a trailer park, and the post office. Both usps.com and the maps I've seen refer to the town as "Lukeville", but when we stopped there on our way through over Thanksgiving, the sign on the post office wall said "Gringo Crossing". I noticed that several other signs in town had the same name. I asked my husband about it, and he didn't have any illuminating information on the subject. Oh, where is the fount of Arizona history minutia when you need one?

Maybe "Gringo Crossing" is an older name? I can understand why you'd change it; it sounds like something out of a lame western, and "gringo" isn't exactly a compliment. It's an ugly name, but intriguing in its overt tackiness. Part of me is tempted to give out my new mailing address as Gringo Crossing, precisely because it's so awful. I assume the mail will still get there, since we rely on the ZIP code more than anything else. Yes, tempting.

Lola is NOT a gringo, no matter where she crosses the border.

La vida nueva

2008-12-02T09:23:00.002-07:00

I spent the fall break with my husband in our shiny new Mexican home, and exploring the most beautiful beach I've ever experienced. I arrived late Friday night, in the dark, and promptly fell asleep. I woke up on Saturday tangled in the sheets on our huge king-sized bed with the filtered morning sun coming in on me, and indulged in leftover sparkling juice and chocolate truffles from the night before. When my husband got home from the office (he works half days a few Saturdays a month) we went to the playa and I played in the clearest, softest little waves in the world (that's subjective). My husband turned to me and said, "Well, welcome to your new life!"

And so it is. I don't have a job and I have no present plans to even apply for a work visa, so I'll be spending my unemployed days writing, researching, and playing in the Sea of Cortez. Life is rough, wandering the tide pools at dusk.

Lola feels justified in taking a break.

La ironía

2008-11-17T10:00:00.002-07:00

This event I'm about to narrate happened last week, the night of the day of my last post, but I still think it's funny and so I'm going to share it anyway.

We had yet another event to celebrate here in the sótano last week: my friend La Rusa's divorce was finalized, finally. She's been trying to two long years to sever her life from that of her shiftless, cheating, alcoholic, paranoid-schiz now-ex-husband, and he's been fighting her on it all the way. Normally I'm a proponent of marriage, but not when it mires the involved parties in misery. Now she's free to move on with her life and find someone who treats her right, appreciates her mind and spirit and loves her completely (she's a catch). As my suegro observes, "There are things in life worse than death, and things in marriage worse than divorce".

Anyway, having been at her side these last two years of heartache and bank-breaking legal battle, I thought we should celebrate the occasion and so on Wednesday we went out to happy hour at a nice tapas bar down the hill. We ate too much and laughed like adolescent girls for a couple of hours, but afterward we both had to head back up to our offices in the sótano to attend to piles of ungraded exams. On the way back we ran into a colleague leaving the building, and she asked what we were so happy about. I told her we'd been out celebrating. She asked what the occasion was, and La Rusa laughed and said, "her anniversary and my divorce".

How's that for opposite ends of the celebratory spectrum?

Funny thing is, I don't feel like one is all that far removed from the other, at least in our cases. We were celebrating shared life with a wonderful man, and her now wide-open opportunity to find one for herself, more wisely this time. Call me cursi, but in their own ways, each situation is pinned to the hope of life-long companionship with someone who'll help us become better people, rather than damning our progress.

Lola is grateful for her marriage, and wishes her friends the same happiness.

Tres años

2008-11-12T09:20:00.002-07:00

Today is my third wedding anniversary. I can't believe it's been that long. Then again, I've gotten to the point that some days I feel like we've always been together, that my life before my husband is vague and somehow less significant. I know that isn't true, because I had 29 years of mostly good and certainly jam-packed life before 12 November 2005. Sometimes I forget that he wasn't around for all of that, and I half-expect him to remember things that happened before we met.

Of course, this doesn't change our present geography. He's off in Mexico working at his new job, and I'm here in Colorado doing mine. I just finished teaching for the day, and am settling down for a day of extracting tokens from a corpus of spoken English. I suppose that's a sign that we're used to this marriage thing-- it's a special day, but it's still a day like any other in that we still have work to do and can't slow down except for a moment to say "I love you, and it's been a great three years so far".

Lola occasionally resents these reminders of responsible adulthood.

¡¡¡ESPERANZA!!!

2008-11-05T07:39:00.002-07:00

I don't know where to draw the line between all this excitement-- I passed my MA exams AND Obama won. Today, at least, I've lost that cynical smirk that always lurks beneath my grin (a friend noted my "sonrisota" this morning). I got a lump in my throat last night listening to McCain's beautiful, inspired concession speech and his call to back Obama, his own pledge to do so, and his plea that we unite as a nation. Though, I was extremely disappointed by his sore loser supporters who actually _booed_ when he mentioned Obama's name. I can't believe he had to shush them! What jerks! In contrast, nobody booed when Obama acknowledged McCain's graciousness and his status as a great hero and as someone who will continue to help this nation progress.

If McCain put a lump in my throat, Obama made me tear up. I don't think his message of hope and progress and unity and personal responsibility is just rhetoric. I honestly believe that he can help us move forward. Naïve? Perhaps. For today, at least, I'm going to ride this feeling of hope and a bright future, along with most of the rest of the world.

¡¡ÉXITO!!

2008-11-04T15:50:00.003-07:00

So, I know it may not seem like a big deal to some people, but I PASSED MY ORAL EXAMS THIS AFTERNOON and now the only things standing between me and those two blessed letters M and A after my name are five more weeks of classes, two half-written term projects and a cakewalk French-translation exam. The biggest, most stress-inducing portion is behind me, and I passed. I did it. I am not an idiot, and that has been verified by by three very bright and highly overqualified professors of mine, one of whom is one of the most influential minds in the field. All of this busting my ass, lack of sleep, and further ruination of my eyesight over the last two and a half years has been validated. I learned stuff, I can analyze it and articulate my analysis. I'm not knocking other kinds of work, but to anyone who thinks that life in academia is cushy or that we don't appreciate the meaning of hard work, you haven't been here. This is at least as hard as any other job, and the climb up the ladder is at least as grueling.

Forgive my narcissism when I say I'm smart and proud of my big accomplishment. Today I feel justified in telling the world.

Magister Lola is comtemplating how to celebrate.

¿Aliviada?

2008-10-27T10:21:00.002-06:00

In answer to Jane's urgent request, I'll attempt to make up for my delinquency in filling you all in on the exams. The written portion went well, I think. I feel a little iffy about my morphosyntax question, but I hope I answered sufficiently that they allow me to explain myself in the orals. The orals are next Tuesday, and if I pass, the only things that lie between me and my M.A. are two term projects and a French translation exam. Facilísimo, ¿no?

In other news, I went to Phoenix for the weekend and met up with my husband at my in-laws place. I won't say it wasn't nice to see them, because it was, but obviously the highlight of my weekend was seeing him. I can't believe how much I missed him. I won't see him again until fall break, at Thanksgiving, but blessedly the University gives us the entire week. I'll be with him for six days, most of it at our little casa in Peñasco. He'll still be at work all day so I'll have time to write aforementioned term papers and maybe even nest a little, and I'll watch the sunsets over the turquoise water of the Sea of Cortez with my media-naranja. Cheesy, I know, but he's really played up those sunsets.

Lola is on the downhill.

La espera

2008-10-18T07:42:00.003-06:00

I've reached a state of calm, and I'm unable to pin down whether it's because I feel sufficiently prepared for the big day on Monday, or if I'm just numbed past the point of being able to worry about it anymore.

Right now I'm exactly fifty hours and eighteen minutes away from sitting down in the seminar room to write the first portion of my exam. Wish me luck, mis queridos.

Lola is approaching the most important test of her life with no signs of jitters.

Yoknapatawpha

2008-10-15T07:37:00.002-06:00

Why is it that in my particular sleep-deprived actuality, my mind is drawn to twisted little details of the writings of William Faulkner? Where did that come from? Yesterday while I was strolling up the hill to my office it occurred to me that my mother is indeed a fish, given that her last name is Herring, ja-ja-ja. The sick part of it is that I'm so punchy (see previous reference to sleep deprivation) that Faulkner's Greek-style hubris lessons in decaying gentry aren't tragic, they're damn funny. I'll grant, Benjy is funny in that sick way that we all inwardly, guiltily laugh at the mentally retarded, but Quentin Compson should probably never be humorous. Then again, we are a special little exclusive club, we failed suicides, in our noirish adeptness at finding a chuckle in it.

Point being, I ought to be drawing connections between various theories of language change, not indulging in the distraction of Southern Gothic.

-----------------------

They liked Los Simpson, by the way, once we resolved the technical difficulties. Maybe I'll teach them the mambo sometime in the last ten or fifteen minutes of class.

Lola strangely feels like Mississippi might have some redeeming qualities, after all.

La locura no para

2008-10-13T17:22:00.002-06:00

I bet you were all just astounded that I didn't update the day after the VP debates to freak out about the Governor's g-dropping, winking, long ums and pauses, weird down-hominess and the shout-out the the third-graders, weren't you? Lo siento, mis queridos, I was just too stinking tired. Can-saaaaa-da. Too tired even to bitch about the statistical-inacuracy pitfalls of evaluating the economy from the junior-hockey league sidelines. That's some serious exhaustion, folks.

I'm only writing here at the moment because I desperately need a short break from the MA list reading and figured I should update. Eight days and counting (incluso hoy). I'm just numb right now, and feeling a bit detached from reality. My husband has already gone to Mexico and started his new job, I've moved back into my old bedroom at my parents' house during the (procrastinated) prepping of our place for the renters, and in one week I take the most significant exams of my life to date, and here I sit watching my words pop up on a screen and being annoyed that my fingers are cold, again. Why am I not thinking about sociolinguistic theory, like I ought to be?

Because my head needs a #@&*ing break from Dr.s Bybee and Labov and Lapesa, that's why. Feel free to remind me of this when I start babbling about PhD programs.

I haven't cried in over a week. I'd like to call that maturity, but I know myself too well. Numb, indeed.

---------

I had a good teaching idea today and managed to impress myself, because that hasn't happened for a while. I'm been operating on auto-pilot in the enseñanza department, but my kids don't seem too much the worse for wear. I've told them at least three times that class will be better after October 22nd. I'd better live up to that. Anyway, here's my nifty idea: We're going to watch part of an episode of Los Simpson in class tomorrow. The culture section for this chapter is on Puerto Rico and the stuff in the book is painfully uninteresting, so their homework for tonight is to look up some info on Tito Puente online and write a short paragraph about him. Tomorrow, we're going to watch a few minutes of the "Who Shot Mr. Burns?: part II" episode, specifically the part where Tito Puente argues that it's better to slander Mr. Burns with a scathing mambo than to shoot him.

"Señor Burns, ¡con el corazón de perro! Señor Burns, ¡el diablo con dinero!"

You remember.

Then, because I am an educator an it is my mission to foul up entertaining things by converting them to learning activities, I'm going to make them get into groups to write a short narration of what happened in those ten minutes, because some of them are still struggling with conjugating the past tenses. It's better than verb drills, though, yes?

-------------

Back to the grind for me and my bloodshot eyes. I'll let you all know how things go with the late great Sr. Puente tomorrow.

Lola is still counting down.

La candidata perfecta

2008-10-02T09:13:00.003-06:00

I'm sorry, but I just had to. Every time something comes out of her mouth, or someone repeats previous idiotic comments, I laugh even harder (mostly to bury the fear). Anyone else planning on being gleefully entertained by the debates tonight?

Contando los días

2008-09-30T11:24:00.002-06:00

There are:

0 days until my first paycheck of the semester (I love a less un-cushioned bank balance!).

7 days until my husband moves to Mexico without me.

8 days until Rebe moves away, during which time I may or may not see her.

21 days (incluso hoy) until the written exam portion of my comps begins.

31 days to pack up whatever my husband doesn't take with him this trip and be out of the house so that our renters can move in.

52 days before I can escape for Thanksgiving break to visit my husband in our new coastal home.

2 months and twenty-some days until I'm free to leave this final semester behind me and move down to Mexico with my husband.

Being a verbal person, numbers are near-meaningless to me, so if I put my life into little numerical slots it seems less overwhelming and stressful. If there's any one emotion on which life is overdosing me these days, it's "overwhelmed".

Lola has a long wait ahead of her, to be followed by a long drive.

Chistes

2008-09-29T16:43:00.005-06:00

So, I know I should stop using my blog as a GOP-bashing forum at some point, but I can't stop laughing at them and at jokes about them. Besides, we need some lightheartedness in these troubling times, right? Is anyone else worried that the DOW dropped 778 points today? I think the bailout vote was a damned-if-you-do, etc. situation for Congress. I think it would have plummeted if the measure had passed, too.

At any rate, I submit the following visual displays for your snickering / horror / offense:

This first one I spied in a sculpture garden in Ft. Collins, CO. I think it's supposed to be whimsical because it was in the vicinity of other circus-themed pieces. Pero: yes, that is indeed a globe the elephant is standing on, and I think the symbolism is less than subtle. Tee-hee.

My husband and I saw this second one in the grocery store parking lot and pulled out our camera phones once the laughter subsided. If this joke is before your time, ask the nearest 30-something about Top Gun.

I'm trying to find some funny things that anti-Dems have to say or display, but they just don't seem to be as humorous as anti-GOPs, and Obama's ears are only funny for so long. I'm used to looking at them now. My mom has a T-shirt that she touts as pro-McCain that says "You have hope, I have skills". Funny, but the shirt says "Nike", not "McCain". Take what you can get, right?

Lola is ready for the elections to be over already.

Protesta, parte II

2008-09-15T11:07:00.003-06:00

So, I figure I should justify my barbed anti-Palin remarks of the previous post by giving a brief (ja-ja) litany of my complaints against her. I could bag on her appearance and her annoying voice, but rather than stooping to that I’ll just tick off a wee list of some of my deeper concerns.

1. Book banning. While the media reports cannot confirm that she ever actually banned anything in the public libraries while serving as mayor of the thriving metropolis of Wasilla, there are confirmations that on at least three separate occasions she asked the public librarians how they’d feel about banning some books, and may have submitted a list of possible blacklist candidates on one of those occasions (rumored). That means she's okay with it, people. Not just that she thinks it's acceptable, but that she outright supports the whole atrocious possibility. She’s also in support of making individual’s library records accessible to government entities, which leads me to think she’s nowhere near a position that the Patriot Act ought not to be renewed. Our freedom to read whatever we please and other civil rights are at risk here.

2. Thinks creationism is science. I’m not strictly opposed to teaching creationism in schools, if it’s in a comparative religion or possibly a philosophy class (generally not offered at the K-12 level, last time I checked). It may have a place as background info in a Western Civ course. But, it’s not science, and has no place in a science curriculum. Here’s some science: the earth is at least billions of years old, fossils are not the creations of the devil meant to lead good Christians astray, the universe is expanding, and evolution of species by the mechanism of natural selection is a natural law, not a theory. Theories of human evolution are yes, theories. The law of evolution is not. I’m just waiting for her to come out against gravity and the rest of physics.

3. Thinks God is down with warfare, and apparently that she can read His mind. While I don’t assume to know exactly what’s He’s thinking, I do not say that I don’t know and then go on to put words in His mouth in the next breath. Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t think we shouldn’t pray for our soldiers. I don’t think we shouldn’t support them in their work. I don’t think we shouldn’t be trying to stamp out terrorism. I do think we need some better leadership among the upper brass, and some better efforts at diplomacy instead of just invading and pissing off the locals, giving them further reason to listen to Taliban-types. I suppose it could be argued (in a circular way) that we’re in Iraq “on God’s errand”, as she calls it, if you take into account that we’re cleaning up a hideous mess and trying to restore order and establish infrastructure—from what I’ve read in scripture I gather that God wants His children to be able to live in peace instead of perpetual fear (I could be mistaken on that, of course. Heaven knows that's not what Ms. Palin got out of it). However, if you recall that we created this mess in the first place by invading and removing the former government (dysfunctional and evil though it may have been), we’re only there to make a (flailing) effort to make up for what we’ve done. I also get the impression that she’s already gunning for Russia.

(A little caveat here of my personal, possibly wacky, philosophy on liberation of oppressed peoples: people have to want to be free, and they have to be willing to fight for it. You can’t “liberate” people who don’t value liberty enough to put everything on the line for it. I do think it’s okay to answer pleas from people who can’t do it alone; remember that a fledgling U.S. petitioned the French in our cause for independence from colonial oppression. But, to go around the world trying to “liberate” people who may not necessarily want democracy is a recipe for disaster and myriad dangers, not the least of which is being perceived as bullies and colonialists by the rest of our fellow earth-dwellers).

(Another caveat/plug: read “Three Cups of Tea”. Now that’s an anti-terrorism campaign. But who in government thinks of winning over enemies by exercising faith in humanity?)

4. Makes uninformed decisions about hunting and other means of wildlife management. Shouldn't a gun-toting "chick" from Alaska know a little more about this stuff? I’m not opposed to responsible hunting. I’m not opposed to responsible firearm ownership and usage within the citizenry. Understand, I’m from a family with a long history of ranching and hunting, and such activities are merely a part of everyday life in many parts of the West. Being pragmatic about it, it’s not too far off-base to see hunting as a necessary component of wildlife management, to keep down herd populations and cull unhealthy animals to protect the health of the species. Of course, if we hadn’t driven out and decimated natural predator populations we wouldn’t have this wildlife management situation on our hands. That said, I highly object to Ms. Palin’s means of wildlife population control. Alaska’s caribou herds were reaching lower levels than is healthy for the gene pool due to overpredation, so instead of issuing fewer hunting permits (a more practical and far less expensive solution), she had the state Game and Fish officers out shooting wolves in a bizarre effort to restore some kind of “balance”. ¿Qué? I can’t help but wonder, with her touting that her father was a science teacher, why she has such a feeble grasp on physics, biology, geology, and ecology, and who knows what other –ologies.

5. Thinks that being able to see the Siberian coast from Alaska constitutes foreign policy experience. Was she able to hear Russians shouting at each other at that distance, too? I’m sure that’s a fine way to learn a language, standing there at the far end of the Aleutian chain. I bet she understands the culture, too.

6. Can’t keep from sticking her foot in her mouth, even when she’s apparently been “coached” before an interview. See above complaints. (At least, the GOP claims that they’re coaching her. I’d hate to see her unrehearsed again).

7. Hypocrisy. I know this is common among politicians in general, but I have to bitch about it this time. She claims an anti-abuse-of-power stance, and yet. . .I cite the trooper-gate mess. Recent McCain-Palin campaign ads hype that she stopped the construction of the “bridge to nowhere”, despite the fact that she earlier campaigned on a promise to build the thing.

8. Lack of experience. To avoid the risk of repeating everything everyone else has said on the subject, I’ll refrain from citing the numerous available examples.

9. Even more ambitious than your average politician. Was anyone else shocked and creeped out by her comment that she believes she's ready to take the helm? Did anyone else get the impression that she's anxious for Mr. McCain to bite it so she can be Ms. President? I wonder if her handlers coached that comment.

I could go on, but I’ve got other work to do. I’m puzzled though, at why McCain/GOP advisors made such a blunder. She’s definitely getting lots of press and drawing some air time away from the Obama camp, but what good is media attention when it’s overwhelmingly negative? What were they thinking? Is this some feeble attempt to win over female voters? I feel both patronized and insulted. I’m not sure even the GOP respects her all that much, given those ridiculous “Hot Chick from a Cold Place” buttons many of them were sporting at the RNC. Is this really the way they want to be perceived in their oh-so-modern views of the value of women? Forgive me, I know very good people who are card-carrying Republicans, but the party as a whole freaks me out. There’s plenty of womanizing going on at all levels of government and on both sides of the party line, but the Republicans seem almost proud of their archaism.

Lola’s not converted to Obama (yet), but pleads with us all to consider who’ll be sitting behind the Oval Office desk when McCain screws us by kicking the bucket before his term’s up.

Protesta

2008-09-12T07:03:00.002-06:00

I've been practicing some restraint lately, and that's why this blog hasn't turned into a daily plea to the average uninformed US voter to PLEASE pay closer attention, and PLEASE don't believe everything you hear on TV. Please read, please dig a little deeper and investigate the issues. I could daily fill my wee blog with endless rephrased versions of that exhortation, but so far I've abstained. Though, I may not be able to contain my diatribe against that scary Sarah Palin character much longer.

But that's not why I'm at this particular spot in the wide world of internet at 7:00am, blogging when I ought to be reading something about the influence of ancient social history on the Iberian articulation of the Latin phoneme /f/. No, I had a funny thought that was far more accessible to the non-linguageek general public.

So, you know how voters-- those with and without media attention-- start making mostly empty threats around this time to leave the country for the next four years if their chosen candidate doesn't win? Sean Penn didn't do it-- I know because I have a photo of a friend (who shall remain nameless) chillin' in front of the Brown Palace Hotel with a (very, very baked) Mr. Penn a few weeks ago at the DNC. Some people make good on their words, other not so much.

I realized this morning that, given our impending move to parts abroad, I can make all the silly threats I want about moving away when Candidato Fulano doesn't win, because I'll be going anyway. Ja-ja! Of course, while my protest-promise may not be empty, it's certainly pointless, given that I'm moving to a nation with even less understanding of first ammendment rights than the aforementioned Ms. Palin. No, I'm headed to a place that is possibly more conservative, more indignantly and deliberately ignorant than even the US Bible Belt. «¡Gasp of shock and horror!» you say! «Can it be so? Does such a place exist?» Yes indeed, web-o-sphrere, Lola is moving to small-town Mexico! Woo-hoo! (At least it's not Puebla, known far and wide as Mexico's most conservative region).

Truth be told, I'm quite excited about it. Mr. Lola got a job down there that will do loads for his professional development and puts us about five years ahead of that plan. I don't have a work visa at present, though even if I were to get one I'd still probably spend the time writing, doing research, and digging for research grants without the stress of exams and due dates hanging over my frazzled head. Teaching there pays even dismally less than here. And, as my advisor astutely observed, it's "a great opportunity for data collection". She's right. Those words also warm my heart (brain?) with the hint of a promise of continued research support.

So there you have it, friends. If the McCain-Palin ticket heads to the White House, Lola's moving to another country. You can interpret it as protest if you like.

El fin del verano

2008-08-20T11:30:00.003-06:00

I should update once again, if only to say that the new semester snuck up on me, and I'm beginning to feel the weight of all the information I have to master before my comps. Gah. Don't expect much in this space anytime soon. I'll be spending my waking hours with diachronic linguists in print form. I should have studied Latin.

Lola needs another month of summer before classes being, and only gets five more days.

Para sobrevivir

2008-07-12T20:22:00.003-06:00

Thursday morning I was at my parents house to help my mom with some errands, and (remarkably) saw something wonderful on TV (it might be more remarkable that I saw something uplifting on the news). While I was eating my Raisin Bran, Matt Lauer introduced an interview with Ingrid Betancourt. It caught my attention, since I'd been following her release in the news.

(If you didn't know about it, Betancourt is a French-Colombian who'd been involved in Colombian politics until she was taken hostage by FARC rebels (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia) six years ago. Obviously she was tortured, etc. She was released in an unexpectedly non-violent and sucessful airlift by the French last week).

It was an impressive interview.

Ann Curry did the interview, and she asked her questions with the requisite saccharine journalistic tone, and asked Betancourt what they did to her. She simply said she wasn't ready to talk about it.

When asked "What kept you alive?", she had a beautiful, perfect, one-word response:

"God."

The way she said it, there was no doubt she meant it.

Curry asked her if she felt "anger, hate, vengeance" toward FARC, and Betancourt responded with a quiet but firm "no, no, no. . .Vengeance is a chain. I don't want to be chained to that jungle. . .There's no room for hate or revenge. I could have compassion for them. . .for me it's very important to forgive. I think it's something makes you more human, makes you a better person.

Wow. I'm impressed. Impressed, touched, inspired. How different things would be if all our world leaders could harbor such sentiments.

If you'd like to watch the whole interview, the link is below. I highly recommend it. Add something edifying to your day.

http://video.msn.com/video.aspx?mkt=en-US&brand=msnbc&vid=fd7348ca-1baf-4795-aa1d-8b8a3cbab16c

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And Jane, I haven't forgotten you. In response: I'm not letting out a peep about what I'm writing, other that to say that it will likely take shape as a novel. I've become a bit paranoid about my intellectual property of late. Don't worry, I'll let you know (if) when I get a publication contract.

Additionally, you're right about the lyrics to the anthem, and for the record I know it has three verses (thank you, hymnal!). It's just that we usually only sing/hear the first verse. And you're also right about the only way to get there.

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My final word: watch the Betancourt interview. If you get choked up I'll take the blame. Lola has a new name on the Heroes list.

¿Patriota?

2008-07-05T10:19:00.005-06:00

This small Wyoming town is a good place and bad place to spend the 4th. First of all, there's nightly rodeo. On the one hand, it's refreshing to witness people exhibiting a true love for their country. On the other, the traffic is awful with all the tourists quadrupling the population for a few days, it's more than a little frustrating to hear the blind sentimental drivel of people who still believe that there's nothing wrong with this country except those damned godless liberals who insist on voting and those immigrants who refuse to act like good 'mercans. Mostly though, the patriotic expressions have been pretty grounded and pleasant.

We went to the rodeo a couple of nights ago. I like rodeo, especially the bull and bronc riding. And yes, I am one of those awful people who thinks animals aren't the same as people and dreams of seeing a really, really good bullfight before I die. But I digress. Because this is Wyoming, the rodeo opens with a prayer to protect all the cowboys. Then we get the national anthem.

I like our national anthem. I like it because I'm a bit of a pessimist, and I appreciate that it's not just a rah-rah-we're-better-than-everyone-else chant. Francis Scott Key, God bless him, knew how to make us feel proud and prick our collective conscience at the same time. If you can remember the lyrics, you'll note that the anthem ends with a question: "does that star-spangled banner yet wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?" Well, does it? Here in the U.S. we certainly enjoy more liberties than many people in the world, overall. We need to be a little more conscientious about making sure that everyone here gets an equal distribution of those same liberties. Home of the brave? I know an whole slew of iron-spined U.S. citizens, and I'm proud of them. I hope I'm one of them, some days I wonder. I think that in general it's part of the national character, but I worry that it's changing.

So, humor me and ponder Key's question for a moment. What are you to help us all answer it with a resounding yes?

Lola's done preaching for the time being.

Bloqueada

2008-07-02T17:29:00.002-06:00

This writer's block is killing me. I feel like a have zillions of wonderful ideas knocking around in my head, but then I sit down to write and end up staring at a blank page. Or screen, as the case may be.

Mostly I'm whining. I'm in rural Wyoming visiting my husband's family for the 4th. Don't feel sorry for me, it's actually a very nice part of Wyoming, that rare bit with some trees. I'm blessed enough to have great wireless access at his uncle's house, but my cell reception is dismal. There are a couple of spots right in town where I've got it, but mostly I'm isolated, phone-wise. Maybe I should be spending more energy hanging with the in-laws, and they're really fun, but I can't shut off. I feel like I need to be working, but I'm too distracted and blank-minded to get anything done.

Lola needs a vacation by herself where she knows very few people and can sit and write all day.

Espías

2008-06-30T18:55:00.003-06:00

So, having been told that's it's unfair of me to leave you all hanging, I now finally proceed to get down to the point and share my juicy tidbit. And yes, Yvonne, it's something I already told you about, while snickering profusely.

A few weeks ago, my husband and I were having dinner with our friend La Rusa, and the conversation found its way around to spying and eavesdropping and bugging and such. We chatted a bit about the situation in Russia, both Soviet and present, and what the US government may or may not be doing to our civil rights, and my husband nonchalantly says "yeah, I'm pretty sure my phone's bugged."

¿QUÉ?

The conversation went elsewhere, and it wasn't until later that night on our way home that I had the chance to ask him if he'd been speaking in earnest when he dropped what I interpreted to be a rather speculative remark. Of course, said he, adding that probably all the communication lines in and out of the clinic are compromised.

For those of you who don't know, my husband works in the legal aid clinic at the law school. There, law students (under the supervision of professors) take on noble causes, like people having their civil rights violated (and not so noble causes, like lots and lots of DUIs. It's all educational, though, right?). A proud moment: last year a team of three students took on the Federal Department of Corrections in defense of a supermax prisoner whose rights were being stomped on fifty different ways, and they won. The students at the clinic take on some unpopular cases, but someone's got to do it. Think Atticus Finch. Unlike Tom Robinson some of these clients are guilty as sin of the offenses for which they've actually been convicted, but that doesn't mean they lose their civil and human rights. Technically.

Anyway, it's (plausibly) rumored that certain governmental elements may be keeping tabs on the clinicians, students and staff.

Then he tells me, also nonchalantly, "yours is probably bugged too, by the way. Since we're on the same cell phone contract, I mean, and because you used to interpret for the clinic." I took an awkward breath. "Oh, and they're probably reading your blog, too."

Otra vez, y ¿QUÉ?

That had me rattled for a while. Then, after a few days, I started to get a sick sense of glee picturing some low-level CIA or FBI peon stuck in a dark, cluttered office, monitoring my phone calls. That poor sucker, who is dyyyying to catch something about my plot to free all the alleged terrorists in Guantanamo, instead listens to Reva telling me about the last unsavory thing her child tried to eat, or my husband and I trying to figure out what we need from the grocery store. I wonder if the poor someone buried in that basement office is reading this right now, digging for my encoded message. Here it is: xIxxLxOxVxExxAxGxExNxTxxMxUxLxDxExR. And that, o ye violator of my civil rights, is the most intriguing this I have to say today. That's my real secret plot: fight back with drudgery.

Think on this: when we were in D.C. a couple of years ago, we went to the International Spy Museum, which by the way I highly recommend (well worth the twenty bucks, because with the Smithsonian's free admission, it all balances out). When you first enter the museum, you get an identity and a secret mission. At special stations throughout the museum, you check in and get new info or do little things to further the mission. At the end, they tell you whether or not you'd make a good spy. By the Spy Museum's estimation, my husband would not make a very good spy. My theory: he's from a small town where people don't lock their doors, and his default setting is that people are generally nice. I, on the other hand, am the daughter of a police officer from a fairly large city, and I drive with my car doors locked. I'd make a pretty decent spy, says the museum. I wonder if the government keeps tabs on the results from tourists to the spy museum? It's a good thing they've got my phone bugged, too, me being a credible threat and all.

Lola is just waiting to be blacklisted by the House Un-American Activities Committee. Bring it on, Senator Joe.

Cinco trivialidades

2008-06-19T18:10:00.002-06:00

I know, no updates in months, blah. I just haven't had the ganas to write. That's not entirely true. It's been a question of spotty internet access, and of only having the ganas to write about things that aren't necessarily wise to post in an open-access forum like the internet. My husband shared a tidbit with me a couple of weeks ago that I've been dying to comentar, but I didn't have the nerve until two days ago to ask him if I could blog about it.

Anyway, the dull update:

1. The semester is over. I win. Happy grades in both seminars, overall my students did well, and I get to chalk up one more semester completed without resorting to institutionalization.

2. My husband graduated from law school. We're damn happy, damn proud, and damn relieved.

3. Now he's studying for the July bar. Not so relieved about that one.

4. I'm finding infinite ways to postpone studying for my comprehensive exams in October. That has to stop sometime soon.

5. One method of procrastination: I took a road trip with my parents (first time I'd done that in a long time) to Kentucky, to visit my brother and sister-in-law, but mostly to poke my niece in the tummy.

6. I also introduced her to the joys of pulling on the dog's ears while emitting squeals of glee. Poor dog. I think she's actually not allowed to touch the dog (I know he's not allowed to come near her) because my first-time-mommy sister-in-law is under the false impression that dogs are germier than people (exposure is good for the immune system, says I). Anyway, all week she'd been reaching for the dog and following him with her eyes, fascinated by that canine mystery. I just took the next step by sitting her down next to the dog and allowed her to demystify the rest for her wee self. Poor, poor dog.

7. My niece only squeals at the dog, and when you take her out of the tub. The rest of the time she grunts and growls at people (and giggles a LOT). This makes me kind of want a baby of my own, so I can sic it on those nauseating cutesy people who think babies should be sweet and sugary and limp all the damn time.

8. My other niece, on my husband's side, also suffers from too much personality for her age. We sent her a toy monkey a few weeks ago, and as soon as she grabbed it she started biting its head. She also refuses to go to sleep without the stuffed rat toy that we got for her at Ikea. Those Swedes are sick, sick people.

9. I've been playing in the kitchen. A lot. I have a new bright-red Kitchenaid 600. With an ice-cream bowl attachment. Yum. Dangerous, peligroso yum.

10. Now that I have time, I have writer's block.

11. My friend Yvonne is in town for an academic conference, and so I get to hang out with her for a few days. And, you guessed it, put off studying for those October comps.

12. A friend of mine is releasing an album soon. He's worked really hard and his music is incredible. He's an amazing lyricist. Album to be released later this year. That's my plug for my amigo supertalentoso. Here's his link:

http://www.mattmorris.net/

That's my update. I'm sure I've forgotten something significant, but there's bound to be at least one thing of interest to you in that list.

*****

Reva tagged me to list five uninteresting things about myself. This will put me squarely back in bloggerdom, I think, and then I'll stop for today.

1. My feet are always cold.

2. I've had an irrational fear or frogs for as long as I can remember.

3. I like the taste of mushrooms, but the spongy-meaty texture rubs my mouth the wrong way with every bite.

4. To the distress and dismay of my husband's family, I only very rarely bake cookies. I like to think my rockin' key lime pie takes up the slack.

5. I really, really, really want a cat.

*****

The juicy tidbit? He said I could share. This is my way of making you tune in tomorrow. It's an evil plot. Much more interesting than my key lime pie, ¿no?

Lola has information.

Más nieve, otra vez

2008-04-11T10:41:00.002-06:00

It snowed yesterday. Again. Sloppy, wet, heavy spring snow. It was only pretty for a couple of hours, and then it started falling off the trees and rooftops and onto our passerby heads beneath in cold, wet clumps. Anyway, it didn't make for bad roads, at least not here.

I'm updating, yet again, not because I have anything to say, but because I feel obligated. Is that a good enough reason, or is it a sign that I should quit this thing altogether?

The semester is almost over, and it's not nearly as ugly as the last one. I'm taking only two classes, both of which I enjoy, both of which have manageable final projects and no exam, and teaching is going well. I think I'm going to have to fail a few students, though, and it pains me. Why should it? They're irresponsible, and I only give out the grades that they've earned, but I still feel rotten about it. I have to remind myself that some students earn an A, others a B, and some earn an F. I'm not doing anyone a favor by passing them to the next level when they're not prepared for it. On the flip side, I anticipate assigning a few more A grades than usual this semester. There are some very serious, hard-working students in my class this semester.

In other good news, the meds are doing their job (read: I'm sleeping and not crying every day) without robbing me of my creativity. If anything, with the upswing in motivation I'm more apt to write down my ideas, which come more freely (surprisingly) and aren't as dark as they were before. The other day I started writing about my childhood experiences with Barbie. Still dark, but in that humor-noir way, and not outright depressing. I'm aspiring to the feminine counterpart of David Sedaris. Set the bar high, right?

I have to meet with a student. Such is the life.

Lola wants some sunshine.

Día soleado

2008-04-02T13:31:00.002-06:00

I think the meds are finally starting to kick in and the sleepy side effects are beginning to wear off. I've been progressing back toward my normal morning-person self the last couple of days. Keep your digits crossed that the trend continues.

Through the stress of this semester, I've had a bright spot that I've mentioned before, and that is teaching. It keeps me focused. Some days, it's the only thing that musters my focus. More than that, by coincidence or providence, I have a great group of kids this semester. There are, as always, a couple that aggravate me now and then, but for the most part they are good, motivated, fun, hard-working students, and a higher-than average number of them are consistently pleasant and prepared. Because today is sunny and beautiful, we went outside for class today. I'm always a little hesitant to do it because of the inherent distraction, but today these kids exceeded my expectations. We went outside on a gorgeous sunny day, and they stayed focused and on-task the entire fifty-minute period. We're going through some confusing grammar right now, and they plowed right through it like troopers. Good kids, I tell you. Today has been one of those days that I feel less insecure about the future in the hands of our youth.

I sound like such a vieja sometimes.

Last night I had an unexpected surge of motivation (I tell you, the meds are kicking in) and busted through the first chapter of Wheelock's Latin. I'm probably speaking too soon because I haven't gotten to any noun declensions yet, but Latin's not so bad. I'd even say easy. Anyway, I had a couple of mini-epiphanies about the vosotros conjugations in Spanish, and how they came almost directly out of Latin. Vosotros, no me fastidiáis más. Ahora os entiendo.

Lola sees a light at the end of the tunnel, and so far it's not a freight train.

Todavía invierno

2008-03-17T09:29:00.003-06:00

The first day of spring isn't for a few more days. To remind us of that fact, we received another big storm last night. I slept poorly last night and figured I'd probably have to work on not being a grouch today, but as I got my sleepy self off the bus I was caught off guard by this vista, and I smiled in spite of myself.

Lola loves a good spring storm.

Un lunes más o menos ordinario

2008-03-10T11:28:00.003-06:00

A sincere thanks to those who have shown love, support and concern. Sometimes I feel awfully isolated living out my waking hours down here in the basement of the languages building on the far end of campus, and while my colleagues are wonderful and supportive, it's good to feel the support of my loved ones spread far and wide.

And on an update sort of note, I am once again among the ranks of the medicated. Gah. Of course, they're taking their sweet time to kick in, all except the temporarily-prescribed sedative, that is. I'm still waking in the night, but now it's only once. In the mean time, my poor system is reacting predictably to new substances being introduced to it, that is, with nausea. Gah, indeed.

I'm still shaky, but there's a sense of relief that comes from knowing I'm moving toward some better management of my mess.

If slowly, Lola's on the up and up. Keep your digits crossed for me.

Me caigo

2008-03-07T08:34:00.002-07:00

I'm cracking up.

Looking back I can see that this has been on the horizon for months, but I didn't imagine that it would get worse. Well, it has. I shake, I cry without warning or provocation, my ability to focus is shot, my sleep is the worst it's been in ages. If I'm so damn tired, why can't I stay asleep through the night? My shiny new therapist could offer several explanations, probably all good.

He asked if I was getting at least eight hours of sleep a night. It was such a preposterous question that I laughed out loud, perhaps a bit rudely, and reminded him that I'm a grad student. He smiled knowingly (psychologists have PhDs, after all) and told me he had to ask anyway.

Anyway, it's gotten to the point that I'm having to make some major adjustments, at least as major as they can reasonably be mid-semester. Some things will have to wait until May (getting 8+ hours of sleep a night, for example). I am blessed in that the people around me-- fellow students, remaining friends, advisor, and my amazing husband-- are powerfully supportive. However, that doesn't change the fact that I'm cracking.

I still haven't snapped in front of my students, though, and I take tremendous pride in that. When I teach I'm in a zone, on a different plane, and there's no room in that space for my issues. I have fifty minutes each day to cram a certain amount of grammar and conversation and writing and listening practice into their heads and mouths, and I don't have time to worry about myself. Forcing myself to go teach every day has been pretty decent stop-gap therapy, for what it's worth.

I'm still here. I've beat it back before, and I'll keep doing it for as many years as are alloted to me. Someday (hopefully some far-off day) I will die a natural death and this will be over.

Nuevo México en febrero

2008-02-18T10:33:00.010-07:00

In Antonito, Colorado, there lives a crazy(?) man who built himself a house that is principally two large stone- and- cement towers adorned with soda cans and hubcaps. The locals refer to it as "Cano's Castle" (the man's moniker is his own truncation of "Chicano"), but the towers remind me more of bell towers on a church, which, taking into account the proclamations to/about Jesús y La Virgen and the virtures of mota, is perhaps the aesthetic he was aiming for. I'd heard about the place, but I saw with my own eyes for the first time yesterday as we made our way north through the San Luis Valley on our long-way-back from New Mexico. Is it "pilgrimage" if I sought it out of curiosity rather than some desire for spiritual awakening? I've had ganas to see it for a while. I wasn't disappointed. If I gave up on holding myself together, I wonder, would my mad energy manifest itself in something like this, or just more ramblings? I'd kind of prefer the funky aluminum castle to piles of illegible theorizing. Productive insanity is still productive, right?

My grandfather was sick last week. My parents had been down last weekend, and Dad said (in passing) that he's so frail that a bad cold could take him. The next night my step-grandmother called to tell us he'd come down with the flu. However, being a Montoya, within two days he'd rallied rather than passing (his own father died well after his hundredth birthday). Late Thursday night as we were sitting in bed, my husband suggested that we take Saturday morning to drive down and see him while we still could. So, we drove as far as Pueblo on Friday night and arrived in NM early Saturday morning and caught the viejo awake and (relatively) alert. It was good, and heartbreaking. He was more talkative than I'd seen him in at least a year, if not longer. He rambled on, losing the thread of each utterance less than five words in, and code-switching between Spanish and English at random. Both are more difficult to understand, not just because nothing makes sense, but because he doesn't wear his teeth. All that aside, he was happy. He hasn't known me for several years, but he's happy that someone who loves him has come for a visit. He held my hand while we walked around the building. He held my hand so tight, and there were moments when he looked me right in the eye as thought he wanted desperately to say something and couldn't put the pieces together. It hurts. I wonder what's still keeping him here, why he hasn't gone on yet, what more he can possibly accomplish in this life. Someday I might be privy to the reasons for this but in the mean time I'm just trying to figure it out.

I was a little teary as we left the hospital. My husband asked if I wanted to just keep driving south and relax for the weekend. Good man. We stopped in town for a while to visit with my step-grandmother, and then headed for Santa Fe. (On a slightly unrelated note, I have few fears about making it into my eighties if I can be as sharp and spry as she is).

The last coupled of times I'd been to Santa Fe had left me underwhelmed and with a mildly bad taste in my mouth, but in the off-season it's a different place. It's still colorful and quirky, but in a much more subdued, pleasant way. We've been tossing around the idea of possibly settling in northern NM, so it was nice to see a bit of its non-touristy side. I won't bore you with all the minute details of our weekend, but I will say that was relaxing to wander the streets and hang out with my husband, and that I ate too much. How can I turn down all that green chile? Also, the people were friendly and put up with all of our nit-picky questions about quality of life there. We may be relocating there sometime in the next few years. There, or any one of at least half a dozen other places on our list of options.

Lola is grateful for her awesome husband and her as-yet healthy mind.

Carretera congelada

2008-02-14T10:23:00.003-07:00

5:30-y-tal de la mañana: after spending around twenty minutes scraping a thick sheet ice off my windows, I'm satisfied that I have safe visibility. My little car struggles over the ice and up the hill to the light, and we manage a left turn onto University Boulevard. All is well, more or less, for about three blocks, at which point a light turns red and my attempt to brake sends me spinning. I deftly steer away from the big truck ahead of me and deposit myself in the relative safety of the lawn of the Methodist church. Kudos to me for not hitting a single tree.

The city is iced over, and I'm not going to Boulder today. Even if I managed to get there safely without careening off the road again (not all places are as friendly to me and my car as Methodist lawns), the round-trip commute alone would rob me of about five hours of my day. I can't sacrifice that kind of reading time. Me rindo. I got a sub and I emailed my profs to let them know I likely won't be in class this afternoon (if things clear, I may launch a second foray, but don't bet on it).

I recall previous mayoral adminstrations in Denver that had the sense to send out the plows. When did city hall stop watching the weather forecast?

I also had a nasty little sociological thought as I de-iced my windshield: Garages aren't just another convenient block of square-footage on your single-family home, they're a class-distinction-marker that can translate to social capital (Feel free to skip ahead to the end of the entry if you're already bored). Walk through it with me: Joe's job pays well enough that he has a place with a garage. On icy and snowy mornings, Joe just revs the engine, opens the door and drives cautiously (we hope). Jim, on the other hand, pulls down a smaller paycheck, so he pays lower rent or mortgage, and has to park out in the open. Jim has to scrape the ice off of his car, which delays him. This means he makes it into the morning rush a bit later (and we all know what an ugly difference five or ten minutes can make in traffic), which delays him further. Let's say Joe and Jim live within a mile of each other, so they both got hit by the same exact storm, and that they both leave the house at 7:30am. However, because Jim doesn't park his car in a garage, he arrives at the office a good fifteen to twenty minutes later that Joe, give or take. Even if he plans ahead and watches the forecast, Jim will probably consistently arrive five minutes late to work, all winter long. Even if Jim's boss is a kindly soul, these kinds of things will reflect poorly on him when evaluations and promotional opportunities come around. Joe and Jim's differential access to covered parking translates to differential access to professional advancement opportunities. Yes, a bit of a leap, I know, and I'm leaving out other factors-- maybe Joe is a lazy TFB and their boss promotes Jim because she thinks Joe's obnoxious, or perhaps Jim is a lush who'd show up late and hungover no matter where he parks-- but it does give pause.

Someday I'll have a place with a garage. By that time in my life, I'll probably be a kept woman who doesn't have to be at work at 8:00am, dangit.

Lola wishes you all a very happy Valentine's Day, Singles' Awareness Day, whatever you may call it. Go get yourself some chocolate, and drive safely.

género gramático

2008-02-08T10:30:00.000-07:00

Once again, I'm updating not because I necessarily have anything worthwhile to say, but because this oft-neglected space needs some love. More of the same: the house is a mess because we have no time to pick up all the piles of books, teaching is good but not great, classes are great but the reading load is ridiculous, my husband rocks, etc., etc. Maybe this time no news is good news.

I started an Arabic class a couple of weeks ago. It's very, very low-key-- we only meet twice a week, there are no quizzes, no exams, no assignments, and no grades. The instructor is a PhD student over in Linguistics, and he does a great job of explaining the structures in simple linguistics terms. Simple? Well, I think so, but the other people in the class might not like it so well. I love it. Anyway, we blew through the alphabet and now we're learning the basics of noun phrases. Last night we learned some weird (I think) things about Arabic nouns. For those of you who can't disassociate biological gender from grammatical gender and grasp the arbitrariness of it all (I still have students who obsess about how and why a table is feminine and a book masculine), chew on this: There are some nouns that are masculine in the singular but feminine in the plural, and vice-versa. That's going to be a concordance headache for me, I know it already. Another funny arbitrary tidbit: Body parts that occur in pairs (eyes, feet, etc.) are feminine, while singular and non-dual-plural body parts (tongue, fingers, etc.) are for the most part masculine. The suspense was killing me. I asked my burning questions, and now I share with you, dear internet public: yes, in Arabic, "testicles" are feminine. Nope, nothing arbitrary about that. Ha.

Ocupada, nada nuevo.

2008-01-29T08:48:00.000-07:00

Following Reva's lead, I'm putting up a new post, not so much because I have something to say but because this space needs news. Sadly, I have no photos of my current dumpy hair, nor of how I wish it looked instead. Like Reva I am in desperate need of a trip to the stylist but I don't have the time. Maybe over spring break? Ha. At least Reva managed to continue looking hot through grad school. For better or for worse, I have not. Does this mean motherhood will be even worse to my appearance?

I just finished grading a quiz my kids took yesterday. Not so hot. Did I teach it poorly, or did they study poorly? Some combination of the two? Lucky thing we've got a quiz every week, so one bad quiz can't hurt anyone's grade too much. I'm tempted to go easy on them this Friday, but I'm not sure that's fair. I'm not too keen on passing out A's because I feel bad for them, but I don't want them to be discouraged, either.

In response to Kendra Leigh and Jane's comments on spouses skiing/not skiing. . .I failed to mention that we struck a deal, my husband and I, and so far I'm holding up my end. We agreed: if I learn to ski, he will learn to dance. It's all a little painful for both of us at times. Here's hoping. . .

I have to go. More reading. I am making a truly sincere attempt this semester to stay organized and stay ahead on my readings and blog postings (the academic ones, that is) and homework problems and lesson plans and all of that, and I have to say it's much more taxing than the lo-haré-mañana approach (well, duh). So far, so good, but we'll see how long this lasts.

Evidentiality and transitivity, here I come!

Respiro, respiro, respiro. . .

2008-01-23T11:35:00.000-07:00

I'll write this quickly because I have to go teach in a few minutes.

But WOW. I have to say I'm enjoying this semester more, I'm definitely more organized and I feel on top of things and my anthropology class rocks, but I am already soooo busy. I'm not even taking my exams this semester. Good thing, because I have loads to read for my classes. At some point in the near future I've got to start preparing seriously for my exams. October is going to creep up on me, just like January did.

Deep breath. It's not even noon, and I've already gotten a lot done today. So much more awaits before I can feel good about going to bed, though. Le sigh. I have to keep reminding myself that I signed up for this.

In completely unrelated news. . .drumroll please. . .I ski like a big kid now! A season-and-a-half into it, I'm no longer snowplowing down the slope like an oaf, I can control my turns and keep my skis parallel. My husband (the cause of my taking on this enterprise so late in life) is so happy and proud he could pop. I'm not feeling too bad about it, myself.

Lola has to go teach the irregular preterite now. Estuve, estuviste, estuvo, estuvimos, estuvieron; pude, pudiste, pudo, pudimos, ad nauseum.

Capital social

2008-01-18T08:17:00.000-07:00

I robbed this little idea from Jane's blog, and she took it from someplace else, and as requested by the original authors of this little bit of socio-introspection, they are credited below with their names and the link. Being a fan of Bourdieu myself, I was intrigued by the experiment and how the researchers had found a nice application to drive home the idea of social capital. Anyway, here's how they get started: below is a list of advantages that could be thought of as bits of social capital. Which ones apply to you? Note that all of these things are not our own accomplishments, but things that other people do for us. What did your parents do to give you a leg up, to pass on their social capital? What could they do for you? How much further ahead are you by someone else's contributions to your potential success?

In the classroom version of this exercise, students line up atone side of the room, and take a step forward if the statement applies to them. Imagine me taking a virtual step forward for each of the statements in bold type.

Take a step:

If your father went to college before you started

If your father finished college before you started

If your mother went to college before you started

If your mother finished college before you started

If you have any relative who is an attorney, physician, or professor. (the professors are my cousins, that is, peers, and not of previous generations; that is, I didn't have this social capital in my childhood).

If your family was the same or higher class than your high school teachers

If you had a computer at home when you were growing up

If you had your own computer at home when you were growing up

If you had more than 50 books at home when you were growing up

If you had more than 500 books at home when you were growing up

If were read children's books by a parent when you were growing up

If you ever had lessons of any kind as a child or a teen

If you had more than two kinds of lessons as a child or a teen

If the people in the media who dress and talk like you were portrayed positively

If you had a credit card with your name on it before college

If you had or will have less than $5000 in student loans when you graduate

If you had or will have no student loans when you graduate

If you went to a private high school

If you went to summer camp

If you had a private tutor

(US students only) If you have been to Europe more than once as a child or teen

(International question) If you have been to the US more than once as a child or teen

If your family vacations involved staying at hotels rather than KOA or at relatives homes

If all of your clothing has been new

If your parents gave you a car that was not a hand-me-down from them

If there was original art in your house as a child or teen

If you had a phone in your room

If your parent owned their own house or apartment when you were a child or teen

If you had your own room as a child or teen

If you participated in an SAT/ACT prep course (though in my case the school district paid for all the honor students to take it).

If you had your own cell phone in High School

If you had your own TV as a child or teen

If you opened a mutual fund or IRA in High School or College

If you have ever flown anywhere on a commercial airline before college (this was on a travel scholarship)

If you ever went on a cruise with your family

If your parents took you to museums and art galleries as a child or teen

If you were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family

I got about a third of the way across our imaginary classroom. I know people who are ahead of me, and who are behind me. I think almost all of them make more money than I do, but I like my job. I have more education than some of the people ahead of me, and less education than some of the people behind me. How far did you get across the room? What have you managed to do with what you've been given?

In the classroom version, students are supposed to pay attention to how they feel: angry, embarrassed, happy, if they feel like a winner or a loser. I feel an odd sort of pride. Looking at my list, I'm impressed with the socio-cultural capital my parents managed to give us despite their somewhat limited financial capital. My father used to tell us stories about traveling in Europe when he was in the military, about seeing Michaelangelo's Pieta before some idiot knocked Mary's arm off, and not knowing until a few years later in an art history class what a significant piece it was. We went to the opera as children, because my father was in the Opera Chorus at the University (first tenor, even). We knew who Mozart was and knew his music before the film Amadeus came out. We both started piano with a fine Suzuki-certified teacher around age six. Neither of us play any more, but we can sight-read decently and pick out our parts in choral arrangements. My mother took us to the public library at least once a week, and I remember her having a perpetually hoarse voice when I was tiny, from reading aloud to us so much. She still reads like it's her job. I may have more education than my mother, but she's smart as a whip and keeps up just fine when I blather on about the material in my MA program. Looks like her private Catholic school education hasn't let her down yet, college or no college. At the same time, we got loads of what WASPy types might call "low-brow" culture, things that might have been more than a little on the ethnic and regional end of things, but I'm also of the strong opinion that being comfortable with diversity (and better yet, having it as a part of everyday life and not as a novelty) is a good thing. My great grandmother was a curandera, was yours? My grandfather, a former cotton-picker, read history books like he was preparing for PhD examinations that never came-- how about yours? I'm proud of those things, by the way. Maybe not so proud that I can recognize and even throw gang signs, but that's one of the bits of covert social capital I picked up in my years of public school.

I'm not sure I'd call it a flaw, but note that this list is extremely establishment-oriented. As in, it pays tribute to The Man. Whether you like it or not, the old establishment still dictates much of what it means to be successful in this country, and who has access to the tools of standard "success".

I wonder what this list will look like for my children. Why do I feel guilty that my hypothetical children will be so much more privileged than others? How do I raise them to be grateful and humble instead of being obnoxious ingrate snobs? We all want our progeny to succeed, and success includes not being a jerk. In my mind, being respectful and appreciative of all people is a priceless kind of social capital. I'll let you know how I'm doing with finding that balance in about another ten or fifteen years.

This experiment was designed by Will Barratt, Meagan Cahill, Angie Carlen, Minnette Huck, Drew Lurker, Stacy Ploskonka at Indiana State University. Loads more info on their research available at

http://wbarratt.indstate.edu/socialclass/social_class_on_campus.htm

Ja-ja

2008-01-15T21:20:00.001-07:00

Not much to report for the day, except that the present semester is looking far more livable so far than the last one. Besides my classes seeming more manageable so far, I also have a schedule somewhat similar to my husband's, which means we'll actually get to see each other on week days this time. Woo-hoo!

Mostly I'm posting so I can share this lovely image my mother sent me in an email, titled "How Rednecks See a Map" (if you click on it it gets bigger and more legible). For better or for worse, my mother is one of those dutiful people that cleans up long lists of other people's addresses before she forwards an email, and consequently I am clueless about the origins of this gem. If it happens to be copyrighted (because it is surely someone else's work), I am deeply sorry for the infringement, but whoever you are, you have a keen grasp on the creepy ignorance of Middle America, and you worked up one damn funny map.

Animalitos

2008-01-12T20:38:00.000-07:00

My brother is leaving to go back to Kentucky tomorrow, so today we humored him went along to the stock show. Now, I know people who think the National Western Stock Show is a big deal, but I grew up here in Denver, so it's always just been that smelly event at the cow palace up on the north end of town, a strange event incongrous with our urban lives, to which our elementary schools brought us every January so that the city kids could look at cows (my uncles had a goat dairy and ranches, so I was unimpressed). Simply, January in Denver means stock show, and it always has. Still, as pedestrian and routine as it may seem when we are reminded of it by the feed lot smell wafting into downtown all month, it's a strange place for me once I'm inside the complex. I'm bootless, hatless, and Wrangler-less, and I feel a little out of place. I'm familiar with livestock but I don't have any of my own, and even though it would be cheap to buy one of those strange fluffy chickens, I'd have have nothing to do with it once I brought it home (not to mention being in violation of zoning restrictions and HOA regulations).

The hermano's current dream is to have a big spread out in the middle of nowhere with some livestock (yes, that's the rolling of my sister-in-law's eyes in the background). He wants to buy a goat for the baby (he's already determined that she'll be just as bovine-lactose intolerant as he is) and to build her a goat cart so that the goat can pull her around the neighborhood. His favorite weird variety are the fainting goats. I didn't believe him when he first mentioned them (he has a history of dressing up truth and reality), but there they are, all over youtube.com and wikipedia and the rest of the internet.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=we9_CdNPuJg

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fainting_goats

Goats that fall over when they's startled. How useless is that? Anywaym, they're real. Much to my brother's disappointment, there were no myotonia-afflicted caprids at the stock show today, but we had a surprisingly good time watching his tiny daughter's eyes widen at the different animals and their behaviors. We held out her hand to pet a huge angora rabbit and spent the rest of the afternoon picking the tiny fibers off her fingers, cheeks, and chupi. She's way to little to enjoy the other atractions in Children's Ranchland, but the petting zoo was just her speed.

Lola really is a western girl, somewhere deep down in a corner of her insides.

El descanso sin descanso

2008-01-11T11:29:00.000-07:00

Bah Humbug. Yes, Christmas itself was nice and there were some bright spots, but mostly this break has been stressful. I know I haven’t updated in a million years so I’ll just give a quick list of what was good and bad about the end of 2007 and the beginning of 2008:

BAD.

-I’ll start with the worst. Right before finals, a friend was killed in a car accident. She had married into a family that’s like family to me, and it hurts to see them hurt. I missed the funeral because I had a final (Yet another reason to resent Phonetics). The funeral and burial are all over, but they still hurt.

-Finals.

-My students performed with mediocrity on their final, overall. It sunk a few final grades.(GOOD: I still didn’t have to fail anyone this semester).

-Fire in our apartment building. Miraculously and blessedly, our unit wasn’t damaged, but we couldn’t go back for several days and now the on-going clean-up in the building is messy and terribly inconvenient.

-After evading one storm on our way out to my cousin’s wedding, the nuptials were delayed because the groom got caught in another storm, and when we left a day later than planned we got caught in yet another storm that closed down the interstate and left us camped out on a wrestling mat in the Summit County Middle School gymnasium, courtesy of the Red Cross. Happy New Year!

-Raging sinus infection, and the not-so-attentive medical professional who attended to me claims it’s viral and not bacterial (no tests or cultures, mind you) and so I’m fighting this one on my own. It's difficult trying to sleep through the ongoing tests while the apparently inept cleanup crew tries to reset the fire alarm. How tough can that be?

GOOD.

-I passed all my classes, including Phonetics. I have never worked so hard for a B+ in all my life.

-We spent Christmas with my parents and were grateful that our little place was just off-limits and not a heap of ashes.

-My husband and I met an old friend of mine and his partner for coffee the day after Christmas and I got to have an intellectually stimulating conversation that had nothing to do with Hispanic Lit or Ling, or with Law. Well, there was some law in there but it was IP so that’s okay. The world is broader than my research, and it feels good to be reminded of that.

-When we went out for my cousin’s wedding we stayed with my husband’s brother and his wife and their adorable child (I guess that makes her my niece). We actually got to relax and play cards. We also spent some time with other friends we hadn’t seen in a while. So, I did get in a wee bit of relaxation during my descanso.

-The piñata at the wedding had Anna Nicole’s face on it. How can that not make you smile?

-Got to see lots of family at the wedding, including my favorite uncle.

-My brother and his wife and my (other) awesome niece have been here while the hermano’s on a short duty assignment, and I get to hang out with them. She’s still too little to spoil and steer into naughtiness, but it’s best for us to bond early so she’ll trust me later when I get around to teaching her a few things.

And that’s been my welcome to 2008, dear fellow bloggers. As I write this I find myself back at my desk, putting off the preparation of a week’s lessons, sorting out my readings for the coming week. When I woke up grumbling about coming to campus this morning, I had no idea it would be so easy for me to fall back into this routine. It’s comfortable. The craziness of the break is already starting to fade into the new semester. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

One last note on my nerdiness: Some of you will get this, and some of you will just roll your eyes in disgust/confusion. So be it. When the building caught fire and we heard the alarms, when I had only moments to gather up what’s most precious and irreplaceable and fits in my hands, I grabbed my research (my husband is mobile and doesn’t need to be carried). I gathered up my laptop and some papers, and ran into the other room for the flash drive that has my backup sound files. Everything else could be replaced or the loss would be acceptable, but not my data. I had to save them, above all else. Take that as you will.

Lola’s out of the stressful break and into a (new) stressful semester. Cross your fingers for me, chicos.

Las excusas

2007-12-05T18:53:00.000-07:00

You know that saying "no news is good news"? Lies. Lies, I tell you.

Rápidamente, here's the skinny on why I haven't written much lately:

1. Mood. Could my brain possibly pick worse time to slip into a deep depressive episode than the tail end of what has arguable been the most difficult semester in years? I think I'm being a trooper about not sobbing in front of my undergrads and I've only broken down in one professor's office so far (and that was phonetics, so no surprise there), but the physical part of it is tougher to combat. I'm soooo sleeepy, all the damn time. And the headaches, gah. I will get to the end of the semester, and then I'll take care of my poor stressed-out poorly-firing synapses.

2. Logistics. I am cursed. My laptop and my neurochemicals are in league against me, they hate me and have bad timing together. My otherwise beloved Dell decided that it should crash its pinche hard drive last Thursday. An IT angel at my husband's office saved my super-critical files, but I'm straining to get all my work done on borrowed computers. I want my laptop back. I'll even forgive it the pain and grief it's caused me.

3. More logistics. End of semester, three huge research papers, one fianl to take, one to administer and grade. Oh, and prep my undergrads for it. There go my alloted 24 of each day.

So, these are my excuses for being a lousy, not-call-you-back, never-send-an-email friend thses last weeks. I will return to my normal(?) self sometime after the 19th. I'll bake a pumpkin pie and all will be right in my little world, for a few weeks anyway.

Nieva

2007-11-28T08:15:00.000-07:00

So, I woke up this morning to a couple of inches of snow. It was lovely, and still soft and powdery so my walk to the train station wasn't too messy. I fell asleep on the bus, and I woke up in Boulder to dry ground, dry air and patches of blue sky amid the grey, and it's about ten to fifteen degrees warmer here. The difference thirty miles makes. . .I bet I looked a little silly to passersby, all bundled up. At least I'll be ready when the snow hits us here this afternoon.

Mostly I'm writing to announce that I am in fact, still waking up every day, in spite of myself. This is by far the worst semester I've had in ages. With some luck I anticipate I'll be able to make it to December 17th without institutionalizing myself. Here's hoping.

Buenas noticias, por fin

2007-11-16T07:50:00.000-07:00

So for anyone sick of my griping (this includes me), I finally have some happy news. I have the best husband in the world. That's not the news, y'all already knew that. The good news is that my incredibly wonderful husband, who doesn't particularly like to dance and feels self conscious about it, took me to a salsa club last night. And he danced with me, quite a bit. And it was his idea in the first place. I got an email from him on Wednesday attached to an announcement that a group of Spanish-speaking law students was planning on getting together Thursday night at said salsa club. He wrote, "I know it's been a rough week. Can I take you dancing?" He's simply amazing. He knows that back when I was single I used to go dancing with my girlfriends not just for fun but to relieve stress and unplug for a while. It was cheap therapy. He knows I miss it. So, he took me dancing. Some of my friends from my program came down from Boulder and joined us for the evening. It was great. A few hours on the dance floor did wonders for my soul, and I didn't think about phonetics the entire time.

Hopefully this afternoon I'll finally get to meet my niece. Cross your fingers and hope that tomorrow this space will be filled with photos of me and the little one.

Aún más asquerosa

2007-11-15T11:15:00.000-07:00

So, I've had this weird new addition to the battery of manifestations of my unhealthy psyche. I've reached a point of stress to intense that it makes me physically ill. I've seen my brother do this, but I've never done it myself. Here's how it works:

I'm feeling really tightly wound lately, but I'm still somewhat susceptible to distractions (gracias a my sweet husband). Monday afternoon I choose to distract myself by going to my parents' house to make sure my Mom's doing okay (she hurt her back this last weekend). When my Dad gets home, we all sit down to plates of tamales smothered in green chile, both of which are near painfully-hot and therefore extremely enjoyable. Assured that my mother is fine and now that Dad's home with her, I head back to my own place to get some work done. I settle into bed with my phonetics homework, and then the nausea sets in. I violently vomit out the tamales and chile, which incidentally burn a great deal more on the way out. I call my parents to make sure they're doing okay, and they are both just fine, no belly troubles at all. Hmmm. What did I eat that they didn't?

The next morning I go to phonetics class. Lately this class gets me so frustrated with lack of clarity that I'm on the verge of tears by the time she's halfway into the lecture, so I'm not taken aback when I feel my blood pressure rising the first time she "explains" a concept in a throroughly incomprehensible way. But wait, a new sensation! My stomach is in full revolt, and I feel the need to run for the ladies' room. What the hell?

Today I managed to keep my breakfast down, but I got the same shakes, racing pulse and nausea the moment I sat down in the phonetics lab. This class has me so stressed that exposure to it makes my physically ill. It's nothing I ate, it's acoustic phonetics. I'm morbidly fascinated by this. I have such a tremendous psychological aversion to this material and its potential effect on my academic career that my body responds to it like a pathogen. I admit that I probably ought to seek some help for this, but I know it won't do any good. What are they going to do, give me a medical excuse for turning in my homework late because I can't get through it without puking? Any way you slice it I have to finish the class, and I have to get out of there with no less than a B.

Lola needs to escape from this crap. Why is suicide only a solution to this problem, but it screws up everything else in so many ways? Where's a non-destructive remedy when a girl needs one?

No me mejoro

2007-11-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

I'm having serious doubts about making it to the end of this semester. I feel tremendously guilty about it. I hate that next week is Thanksgiving. I have an amazing family, an incredible husband, material comforts galore, and more opportunities than I can handle (literally). I have a great life, but somehow it's still dismal and grey and school is killing me. I'm afraid I'm going to snap soon, and it would be quite the challenge to finish the semester from inside the psych ward.

Asquerosa

2007-11-11T14:54:00.001-07:00

So I didn't post yesterday. So shoot me. And guess what, I've got nothing to say today, either. Life is hell. It may be prettier than the biblical version, but it's still hell.

El día después

2007-11-09T11:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday turned out to be nice, especially for a birthday, and I am convinced I have the best friends and particularly the best husband in the world. Dinner was really disappointing, but we couldn't have known that it would be, and I still got to spend the evening with my sweetheart.

The Broker Restaurant is going to get a nastygram about how much and to what depths their quality has slipped over the past few years. The last time I ate there was about five years ago, and it wasn't the absolute best I'd ever had but it was good. Last night was awful. Some of the food was just mediocre, but some of it was downright awful. I was sad. They should be embarrassed.

I have to run. I have some thing to do before tonight, and I may as well get started now. Here's hoping I manage to squeeze in some relaxation this weekend, ha-ha-ha.

Cumpleaños, no necesariamente infeliz

2007-11-08T07:44:00.000-07:00

I will do this early in the day because Thursdays tend to get crazy.

I woke up feeling down this morning, because birthdays in one's thirties will do that to a person. I'm still me, though, and it's still the busiest day of my week, so like any other day I numbly got out of bed and got about the business of the day. The down didn't last. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when I heard my husband's alarm going off. I looked at the clock-- 5:15am, much too early for my man. I went into the bedroom as he was reaching for the snooze alarm and queried why on earth he was getting up this early. "To spend the morning with you", he responded, setting my heart to instant melt mode. He's good at that. He dragged himself out of bed while I showered, we sat down to breakfast together, and he gave me my present that he bought three weeks ago. He can't stand having surprises sitting around, he's terribly impatient in that way-- the last few days before Christmas are pure torture for him. He gave me kitchen toys. I know there's that old rule about not giving a woman utilitarian homemaking devices as presents, but I love to cook and he's so good at finding just the right new gadget for me to tinker with. I'm the happy new owner of an Émile Henri deep dish pie plate. It's this wonderful, durable, even-heating ceramic that makes the most tender, perfect crusts, oh, and just in time for pumpkin pie. . .he knows me. He knows me well. He listens when I fantasize about how I'd like to have a particular dish or pan or knife or gadget, and he knows I've been lusting after this high-end pie plate for a while. He's got a good racket going, though-- he gives me culinary toys as presents, I get excited and play with them, he ends up well-fed. Hmmm. He's definitely got me figured out.

When I got to campus, I found a piñata dangling over my desk, a little brightly colored burrito, left there by one of my scheming colleagues who threatened it a few days ago. She's great. I figure we'll bust it after Colonial Lit seminar this evening.

The last several days I've been unhappy about my birthday, but the first few hours of it was great. Let's hope the trend lasts, or at least resumes after phonetics. No one should have to go to phonetics lecture on their birthday.

La lectura

2007-11-07T15:49:00.000-07:00

I feel so overwhelmed. I get this way every semester, around this time. I've matured and no longer entertain fantasies about robbing a bank and running away to some place with no extradition treaty, or dropping out forever and working at a coffee shop as that bitter, failed academic wannabe that spouts random bits of pseudo-wisdom from pop-y writers and superficially trendy philosophers. Well, that wasn't really a fantasy, it was just the easy way out that seemed appealing for a few minutes. I still envy those people that read what they choose, that don't do it on a schedule. I felt frivolous this summer when I read Harry Potter, extremely frivolous. I read it in a little less than a day and a half, and so did Reva. However, she devoured it for the sheer pleasure, because it was so good she couldn't put it down. I read it fast partly because it was good, and partly because there were several academic texts waiting in line behind it.

I'm only complaining a little bit. I love school. I'd like to say that I can't imagine working outside of academics, that my imagination can't sink to that level of dull, but I've been there, and I imagine it in stark plainness. A few months in a regular office job was more than enough to send me running for the grad school applications. I love school, minus phonetics. I love the constant intellectual stimulation and the opportunity to spend most of my waking hours with colleagues who are even nerdier than I am. How can something be so draining and so stimulating all at once? It's the quantity, I think. Overstimulation. I have too much on my plate, but that's unlikely to change before next summer. I guess I'll just cherish sleep during Christmas break. And when I wake, I'll spend my days with my books, one volume at a time to slowly chip away at my MA reading list. Christmas or not, I still have impending exams. It'll be a while before I read another novel, especially one as light as Harry Potter. I don't know whether I'm relieved or sad that the series is finished. It was an excuse to read something else, but it was also a social obligation that pulled me away from that MA list.

Todavía nerviosa

2007-11-06T16:40:00.001-07:00

So, I'm only posting today because I committed myself to this NaBloPoMo nonsense. What a scam.

I met with my phonetics prof this afternoon, and after discussing my final project proposal with her (which she thought was cool, by the way, and gave me a couple of good pointers on data collection) I mentioned my fear of getting an unsatisfactory grade and having to repeat the class. She smiled weirdly and told me she didn't think I needed to worry about that. I protested that my department insists on higher grades. Still no need to worry, says she.

I ought to be relieved by that, but I'm not. I still don't understand acoustic phonetics, and I can't do the stats. Not entirely true, I guess-- I do that stats just fine. I am not challenged by entering data into a spreadsheet and coaxing means and standard deviations and p-values out of them. Not a problem. I just don't know what that p-value means, or what a two-tail t-test is (besides alliterative). How can I be confident that I'll perform swimmingly on the final exam when I don't understand the material?

Lola is not lulled into a false sense of security (but she sure wishes she were, dangit).

Xocholatl

2007-11-05T19:37:00.000-07:00

I had a really wonderful cup of chocolate today. I brought dinner to my husband when I got back from Boulder, and after we finished that I was craving something sweet so we went for a walk. He was thinking baklava but the 24-hour Palestinian dive on the corner was packed, so we walked another block over to the neighborhood coffee shop for some hot cho. I hadn't been in there in a while, because I'm not a coffee drinker and because until recently they didn't have WiFi (I discovered today that they've joined the 21st century). The big board over the counter offered not the standard "hot chocolate", but "xocholatl", which had me instantly intrigued. I inquired what merited the Nahuatl throwback spelling, and the barrista informed me that the barely-sweet concoction bragged not only canela but chile. The real thing. I ordered it at once and was so happy that we'd passed up the baklava. Poor Europe. What was their food like before tomatoes, before potatoes, before chocolate, chile, avocados, corn, and all those other wonderful things that make the prospect of another day of caloric ingestion worth getting out of bed? Don't get me wrong, I'm a sucker for good baklava, but dark, spicy chocolate satisfies like no other. Throw in the chance to sit and chat with my sweetheart for a spell and this little Lola had a perfect, phonetics-free evening. We flipped through a local rag together, read movie reviews while we held hands and banished the slight chill the late autumn evening with hot liquid and chile in our bellies.

I think we might be building a straw-bale house. Anyone out there have some info on that? Personal experience, I mean. Huff and puff, come blow it on down. I think that they're pretty, but also solid-looking, romantic in that scruffy, dirt-under-the-fingernails kind of way. The energy efficiency is also sexy.

. . .que otro estaba soñándolo.

2007-11-04T15:35:00.000-07:00

I had a meltdown this morning, but the reasons for it are hardly worthy of the words I'd waste to describe why, and then to explain and justify that description. So, I'll say this: I have an incredible husband. I know he doesn't understand why I fall to pieces sometimes, but he's patient and loving when I do, and he holds me and tells me that I am not, in fact, a despicable being, flouting my insistence to the contrary. I know it worries him a little too much even though he tries not to let that shine through. He is good. Good. He holds me and tells me it'll be okay, which is often the most and best I could ask.

It would be somewhat deceptive to say there's a streak of mental illness in my family. Wide swath is more accurate. It picks and chooses, and it doesn't get everyone, but those of us it puts its finger to, it likes to pick at mercilessly. I think I do a decent job of wrestling my demons to the ground and keeping my foot on their throats while I go on with the rest of my life, superficially stable and sane, but I do wonder how late into my golden years I'll keep up that bit. Will I decide sometime in my sixties or seventies that it's not worth the effort anymore? Or will I hold out into my eighties, stubbornly sane until my last breath? If I threw in the towel today I'd probably have to just go on living with my crazy self for too damn long, and that's too much added stress when my plate's already overflowing with the grad school mess.

So, while I dutifully keep frequent mental tabs on my sanity and keep up the maintenance and mostly do just fine, there are days when I wonder, when I think about it a little too much.

I have always been a vivid dreamer, and it's always more heightened during a depressive or manic episode. In fact, it's one of the standards by which I keep tabs on myself; just how vivid are my dreams this past week, last night? If I have too many mornings in a row that I have to exert extra effort to coax my mind back into waking reality, I know it's time to give my brain some extra love. It's not that I don't enjoy the dreams, but they can be draining, and they're a portent of further mental unravelling. So, I do my best to keep them in line.

Yesterday we went to visit my grandfather at the hospital where he lives in New Mexico. He's in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's, and they keep him there so he doesn't wander. It's not one of those nasty old-age homes that smell like urine and look like a horror film set. It's a really nice place with an amazing staff. They take exceptionally good care of him there, and they are kind. We got lucky. But I digress. We got there in the afternoon, and he'd already fallen asleep on the couch. We couldn't rouse him. We tried off and for an hour, and our best efforts (and the staff's) couldn't get more than some muttering out of him. Just as well, because he's not always alert when he is awake. I mostly gave up try to wake him and settled for holding his hand. I could feel little twitches in his fingers, and it seemed to calm him to know that someone was there. I kept noticing his eyes, though, because there were periods in which his REM was clearly visible. Naturally I wondered what he could possibly be dreaming. What images and sounds run through an advanced Alzheimer's mind? I want to believe that in that unconsiousness, he has access to everything his brain denies him when he's awake, that he is lucid, that he remembers it all and is spared the frustration of needing to be reminded of own name. But I've seen the brains of Alzheimer's dead, thin plastinated slices of grey matter peppered with holes and gaps, empty vaccuous voids where memory used to be. Sleep is not such a magician that suddenly the synapses reach across that chasm.

What does and Alzheimer's patient dream? Why do the brain and body continue with such a seemingly empty ritual? Does he still get the seratonin-balancing effects of REM? Is he articulate and witty again in his dreams, or is he robbed of that at all hours? What's so good about sleeping and those dreams that he fights waking? Why do some parts of the brain keep chugging along as others decay away?

I know I am more than the sum of my genes, but in the back of my mind (mostly) I worry.

Don't get the impression that yesterday was a downer (that was this morning). I had a great mini-road-trip with my sweetheart, who got to meet my amazing Aunt Terese for the first time, and he met her father (my great-uncle) and got the nickel tour of the mini-museum he calls a living room. He showed us old family photos and told us stories and I caught up with my aunt. We went to lunch with them at an ancient restaurant down on the river, where he eats almost every day. The green chile alone is worth the four-hour drive. He took visible delight in introducing his "little niece" to all the cooks and waitresses, who all know him well and like to take care of him. I was relieved but also slightly disappointed that my husband didn't see him pinch any of the waitresses. He must have outgrown that in the past couple of years, finally. My husband was charmed by them, just as I knew he would be. They are good people, and some of them are far better than good. I've got that in my genes, too.

En la ruta a la memoria

2007-11-03T05:57:00.000-06:00

I'm leaving to spend the day in Southern Colorado with family, we're getting on the road as soon as my husband is out of the shower, and since I don't know if I'll get a decent internet connection again today, I am posting before 6:00am. Gack. It's not even a weekday. We want to get down to Trinidad in time to have lunch with a great uncle of mine, mostly because I want my husband to witness and participate in Saturday lunch at a local restaurant that this uncle haunts and where he hits on the waitresses. He is 92 years old, I believe. Maybe 93. Viejo rabo verde. We will probably hop over the border to NM to visit my grandfather in the afternoon. He is in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's and lives in a lockdown unit of a home so he can't go wandering down the highway anymore. He used to do that. He'd set off for Trinidad to visit his siblings who live there (or sometimes the ones who've been dead for ten years), thinking it was a perfectly good idea walk up I-25, over Ratón Pass, no less. As if that weren't bad enough, on the way he'd forget about his sister Margaret and end up thinking he was behind enemy lines in France in the early 40's. When he'd inevitably get picked up by the State Patrol, he couldn't remember his name but he'd insist that he had to get back to his unit, that they were just over that next rise and that they were waiting for him. After a while he began failing to differentiate between English and Spanish and would code-switch at random, not realizing it, and then he lost coherent language altogether. Last time I saw him he liked to mumble, giggle, and make animal noises as though he were telling me a story, but then his eyes would wander off in another direction and he'd forget I was there. When he'd finally look my way again he would smile politely, surprised at the visit from a kind stranger.

I don't know if I visit him for my benefit or his or some combination of the two. I do it for reasons beyond duty, but it's difficult to articulate. My other grandparents did not lose their cognition, they were all three absolutely lucid until the moment they passed. They never stopped knowing who they were, who were were, never slipped out of the stark understanding that disease was rapidly and painfully shortening their time here. It is hard for me to see the silly, gentle, stubborn, contemplative man I knew supressed or disappeared while this muttering shell remains.

My husband is out of the shower and getting dressed. That's my cue to sign out for now. Hasta mañana.

Otro viernes

2007-11-02T15:11:00.000-06:00

You know that lame expression, "what a difference a day makes"? I don't need a whole day, I just need a good nap.

Yesterday afternoon I skipped my Colonial Lit seminar (I'm only auditing, this is not a reflection of academic irresponsibility) and came home to take a nap. Two hours later, I was a new woman. No more bitching and bitterness. No more seething hatred of phonetics (I'm still not fond of the stuff, but I'm able to keep a lid on it when I'm well-rested). Sleep, precious sleep. I have fantasies about life after the MA, and most of them revolve around days on end where I get more than the minimum four hours I need to function like a bare-minimum automaton. I think about all the things I do in a day on those four or five hours, and then I wonder wistfully if I'll be phenomenally more productive when I can count on a good six. Of course, there's always the possibility that flow of creativity is cruelly and inextricably linked to mild REM-deprivation. Let's hope not.

Incidentally, Reva, "gruñon" means grumpy, gripey, put-out and vocal about it. So, yeah, you kind of nailed it.

Autumn is lasting longer than usual this year. I've been trying in my mind to describe this day in a way that doesn't sound trite, and it's not happening. I would take a photo but I know it would only capture the color, and that feebly, that a mere 2-D image doesn't transcribe the sharp edge of the air that is colder than it looks in the long, almost horizontal rays of sun. At this angle some of the UV harshness we usually get at this altitude is tempered and it doesn't sting the eyes so much, and I find myself walking on the sunny side of the street rather than seeking refuge in the shade. It's downright cold in the shade, but the sunny spots take the edge off. It has been just the right amount of chilly for just the right number of days so that the leaves that are still on the trees have had a chance to ferment into deep oranges and reds and golds and not just sickly yellow-green hat suddenly goes decayed brown and grey in the snow. I know there are some serious downsides to climate change and they frighten me when I think about them, but if I can find a sliver of silver lining it is this: For a few years, perhaps, before we all get wiped out by raging storms and rising coastlines, Colorado will have longer and indescribably beautiful autumn.

Agotada, or, Why This grumpy girl feels her MA is worth a little more than some others at this university

2007-11-01T06:25:00.000-06:00

Happy NaBloPoMo. You get to hear from me every day for the next 30. I don't think every entry will be as gruñon as this one is shaping up to be.

I got here (my office, that is) at 5:45am, which is early even for a madrugadora like me. Last night I stayed at my parents' so that I could take them to the airport at O'dark:30 this morning to catch a plane to Kentucky. They're going out to visit my brother's family. This includes the new baby. I am jealous, not just for the few days' escape to some different scenery, but for seeing the baby. I'm not known for ever experiencing excitement over babies, and I had a hard time getting into my sister-in-law's pregnancy. I was certainly very happy for her, but we're not as close as we probably ought to be, and she already had plenty of other female relatives and friends hovering over her and we live in different states and I'm busy and blah blah blah, I just didn't participate in the pregnancy rituals. I've felt a little disconnected from the whole process--not in a bad way, just disconnected. However, as soon as the baby was born I was unexpectedly rushed by a mostly inexplicable thrill, and I am dying to meet this baby. I want to poke her in the tummy. When I call my brother, sometimes I can here the baby in the background screaming in that mashed-cat way that newborns do, and it makes me smile and laugh because it's cute (also because it's them and not me that she's depriving of sleep). This is good. This gives me hope that I won't feel indifference toward my own hypothetical children in their infant stage. I am really, really looking forward to meeting her. My brother and his wife and the baby are coming out in a couple of weeks, and in some moments I find myself struggling to focus my work because my mind is wandering to my niece. I've never even met her, so how can I like her this much already? Must be a blood thing.

But I digress. I got here even earlier than usual (I am still the only one in the offices, except for someone banging around two floors up) and sat down to the dreary task of finishing my horrid, horrid phonetics homework. I serendipitously checked my email before I started, and found much to my delight that most of the rest of the class has also had complications with the assignment and that the deadline is extended to Monday (I'm delight about the Monday bit, not the shared exasperation. I'm not that nasty). I don't want to draw this out any longer than I have to, but this means I have time to get help with doing statistics in Excel. I hate this class. Yesterday I told my husband that I couldn't remember the last time I hated a class this much, but this morning I recalled. It wasn't undergrad stats, it wasn't Philosophy 101 taught by an angry unmedicated jerk prone to ranting in Greek. The last time I had a professor this unreasonable and out-of-touch and assignments this ridiculous, was my sophomore year at BYU when I took the first of three required semesters of anthropological theory. I was nineteen, and it was my first time coming up against material that heady, and one of the profs (it was team-taught in sections by five members of the faculty) was an outspoken, arrogant misogynist who gave us what then seemed like (to my undergrad self) excessive work that was not part of the established curriculum. As a group we complained to the department chair. He shrugged it off, dismissing it with "yeah, he's like that, but don't worry, I've got the say on final grades and I'll make sure none of your grades suffer because of him". This phonetics course is bad in slightly different ways. The professor communicates poorly, lectures vaguely and gives us poorly planned and poorly explained assignments, but she's a nice person and generally approachable (though I teach during the time she usually holds office hours). The workload is fine as far as quantity, but lately it's unclear exactly what the assignment is. The administration of the last exam was thoroughly botched. It was a transcription exam-- heavy on the listening, that is-- and around half of the recordings were nearly inaudible. I don't want you to get the impression that I'm lazy, because I'm not. But I am tired, and I'm worried about my grade, and I feel like the other members of the class are whiners (pure hypocrisy, I know). Here's my main gripe: They are required to do half the work I do, and they're not required to do all that great a job at it, and in the end we all get MA's from CU. Huh? Here's why: I am not officially a part of the linguistics department, I am a part of the Spanish department. Therefore, I am "expected" to take three seminars each semester, and I'm "expected" to teach one five-credit course each semester ("expected" in quotes because these are official requirements of first-year MA students only, but they are de facto requirements of those of us in the second year, as well). In the end I will have completed half again as many seminars to earn my degree, in the same amount of time, balancing teaching all the while. I also am held to a higher GPA standard. I am allowed up to one grade of B- in a course, which must be repeated. Two final grades of B- or less and I'm out of the program. I'm okay with the high standard. It has never given me grief before this semester. High expectations make me work harder. Consider, though, for contrast, the requirements for linguistics MA students: Two graduate courses per semester. No teaching appointment. Any grade of C or better counts happily toward the degree. What this means is that my phonetics professor thinks its perfectly acceptable to give me a C. I'm not anticipating a C, mind you, and I'm not shoving off my personal accountability for my final grade. In the end it's up to me. However, given that the last few homework assignments have called for physics that I never learned and statistics that I've long forgotten, neither of which was explained in class or readings or lecture notes, I worry. I'm a decent autodidact with many things, but not with math or hard science. I can't read a formula on a page and just get it. I can get help with homework assignments from the left-brainers in my life, but I'm concerned that much of this material will make an appearance on the final exam when my right-brain and I are left to our own meager devices. I'm more than a little scared that I won't pull off something better than a B and that I'll have to repeat this dismal scenario next fall. The phonetics prof is a nice person, but certainly not nice enough that I want to repeat her class. I don't like anyone that much.

I have never in my life been so terrified of a B minus.

I should quit griping. I can find a way to pass this class. I might be able to sleep less and push myself a little harder. In the end I have to settle for the personal satisfaction of knowing I worked harder for my degree, that I had to work harder to get into my program in the first place, blah, blah, blah. At some point it's not worth it to worry about whether or not things are fair, because inevitably they aren't, usually from many angles. Will that make it any easier to get a job?

Lola has to write a project proposal, and promises that tomorrow's entry will be less negative. Sometimes I just need to get it off my chest.

Japi Jalouín

2007-10-31T10:31:00.000-06:00

It just wouldn’t be Colorado-ween without snow.

When I left the house this morning a little before six, it was drizzling. I went back inside to grab my ski parka, the only waterproof jacket I own (I should fix that). When I emerged two minutes later, the drizzle was starting to freeze and it pelted my hood in tiny percussions all through the six-block stroll to the train station. I had plenty of time to think about Halloweens past when I had to wear my coat over my costume, or long johns under it. When I was a little thing my mom used to make my costumes, and they were usually a home-made version of fuzzy footed zip-up jammies with various embellishments to make them look like some animal. My mom is really good with stuff like that. When I got a little older and more willful I didn’t want to wear a warm, fuzzy mouse costume. I wanted to be a princess (someday I will replay this frustrating drama with my own daughters). My mother relented and even made up beautiful princess costumes, but they were never very warm, and it always snows on Halloween in Colorado. No matter how pink and glittery and frilly the dress, a girl just doesn’t feel as princess-y when that dress is donned with moon boots and a big lumpy parka.

I’m not dressing up today. I’m too busy, and I’d feel more than a little silly walking in to teach a university-level class in a costume and make-up. It’s the wrong setting. I used to throw huge parties for Halloween, but this year my husband has class until 9pm and I’ve got loads of homework to do and arrangements to collect data from an informant for my linguistic anthropology project. We don’t get trick-or-treaters because our building has a locked entrance. When did Halloween become just another grey, drizzle-to-snow day?

Vieja

2007-10-29T07:19:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago in class I was teaching my alumnos how to chat about health and doctor's visits and other such useful vocab, and I had them playing in pairs with a conversation activity. One of the preguntas they asked each other was how they maintain a healthy lifestyle. When they do these kinds of activities I usually circulate through the classroom, listening and giving suggestions and encouragement. I also encourage them to engage me in their simple dialogues from time to time. That particular day, one of my sweet students posed the question,

"Profesora, ¿qué hace Ud. para llevar una vida sana?"

and it stumped me. In a stark moment of realization I had to answer that I don't do one damn thing to keep myself healthy. The little pat answers I was teaching them did not apply to me. No tomo vitaminas. No hago ejercicios. No voy al gimnasio. No como muchas verduras. No duermo ocho horas por noche. Anyway, I least I didn't have to answer with the auto-evaluation common among them that me emborracho todos los fines de semana or worse, me moteo todos los viernes. Does that make up for my obscenely and inexplicably high cholesterol?

Around the same time I took one of those stupid online quizzes that I really ought to ignore, of the "find out your real-age" variety. Once upon a healthy pre-grad-school lifestyle I found them somewhat validating, because they told me I was young. Not so now. I wanted to cry foul, to say it was unfair to tell me I'm "really" 42 when I don't drink, don't smoke, don't play with illicit drugs. On the other hand, I don't have time to exercise, eat right, or sleep more than four to five hours a night, and according the the all-wise RealAge quiz that's enough to add over ten years. If I took up the habit of a nightcap, would it add another ten, or just make me sleep more heavily? Screw them, I say. I look damn good for 42, if that is in fact my "real age". At least grad school isn't making me go grey, yet. We'll see how my dark locks fare come comprehensive exams.

I'd love to say that all this was a wake-up call, but in real life I have to finish this semester, then another one that will likely be more difficult, then take my exams. Somewhere I have to find time to study for said exams. Let's not forget that I'm required to continue teaching five days a weeks all this time. So, more sleep is simply not an option. I'll think about sleep after December 2008. I know I'm not supposed to procrastinate these things, that I should take care of myself right now, blah, blah blah. Ha, ha, ha. The truth is I made this choice and I know this is the trade-off. Tired as I am I love being in school and I love everything I'm studying with the marked exception of acoustic phonetics (which I loathe, and fear I will have to repeat next fall if I don't manage the required B or better). The intellectual stimulation and sense of meaning in my life make up for the exhaustion. I just wish the headaches would go away, they wear me down more than anything else. I'll sleep a little over Christmas. If I go grey at least I'll know why, and I can christen each silver strand with the name of a different soundwave or phoneme.

Lola wants to believe age is only in one's mind.

Todavía viva

2007-10-24T07:22:00.000-06:00

Hello out there! Yes, I am still alive. I know it's been months since I updated, and now that NaBloPoMo is coming, I should gear up by getting back into the habit of writing at least a little less sporadically. There's loads I never wrote about, like the adventures we had in Mexico when my husband came back with me after our little adventures at his sister's wedding in Utah, and the roadtrip we took to Montana twelve hours after we got back to the States, and the ongoing insanity of this semester. Worry not, dear reader, you'll get it all as I scramble for things to write about every day for a month.

(For the uninitiated, NaBloPoMo is some weird abbreviation, I don't know its original derivation, but during the month of November bloggers make an entry everyday for the 30 days. It's a web version of the crank-out-a-novel-in-the-month-of-November thing. If I were more motivated or less pressed for time I'd do the novel. Maybe next year).

Anyway, as stated above, this semester is killing me, but it's halfway over. Is that good or bad? It's nearly over, but that means less time to do my final projects. I need to get rolling on those, blah, blah, blah.

However, the most important news by far of late is the birth my niece, the most beautiful newborn in the world. In the photos my brother sent the day she was born she was still pink and squinty and pained-looking, but now that she opens her big eyes wide she is more than beautiful. I am going to spoil her absolutely rotten. Someone has to teach her the joys of launching flaming Barbies with an atl-atl, and that is precisely why she needs naughty Aunt Me.

Isn't she gorgeous? Can't you already see the mischievous twinkle in her eye? Don't worry, Ben, I'll spoil her in sweet ways for at least the first year or so. Lola is smitten by a baby.

Despedida

2007-07-13T08:34:00.001-06:00

Today is my last day in Guadalajara, meaning that a few hours ago I wrapped up my last night in town. My flight leaves in a few hours and then I'll be home before I head back with my husband in a couple of weeks. So, how did this girl spend her last full day in town?

Let's remember I'm a student, and a procrastinating one at that, so yesterday morning I woke up at 6am to finish my paper, then went to the school to print it and turn it in, blah, blah, blah, and the nerdiness continued with attendance (voluntary, on my own time) to a lecture about the historical reception of Rulfo's novel Pedro Páramo. Yes, that's really the kind of thing I do my last day in town, and it was very satisfying.

After the lecture I went back to the school to meet a couple of friends at a party they were throwing for the students who just finished the term. I went more out of obligation and wasn't expecting it to be that good, but I was wrong. They'd hired a local house band and a DJ to play for us, and they were great. Reva, you should have been there-- their frontman is a violinist! (Don't worry, I picked up a copy of their disc for you). They really got the crowd going, too-- any set that starts out with an electric violin rendition of Billie Jean with heavy bass behind it is the beginning of a good party.

After a while we (La Francesa, El Portero, yo) went to meet some other friends at a salsa joint. There was some confusion about meeting times and places and a couple of people didn't make it and I feel bad about that, but we still managed to have a good time. Here's a photo of the three of us in Callejón de los Rumberos, and yes, that's a massive photo of the port of Havana behind us. If you're in Guad and want a great night of live Cuban music, I highly recommend the place. We stayed there dancing until our feet and hips couldn't dance anymore, then went for tacos at one of those all-night taquerías on a street corner (their vampiros are to die for!) and then walked home. One of the things I really like about spending time with La Francesa is that she's culturally accustomed to walking everywhere and doesn't insist on taking cabs for walkable distances, and Guad is a very walkable city with balmy pleasant nights. I'm glad we're coming back in a couple of weeks because I'm not quite done with this place or these people for the summer. I'm so excited to take my husband to a divey all-night taquería, and to let him see what a great art-and-music town this is. I've got a few more nights in Guad to come.

Lola has to finish packing. ¡Hasta pronto, Guadalajara!

Fresitillinita

2007-07-11T06:54:00.000-06:00

This photo is mostly for Rebecca's benefit, because you, Rebe, will appreciate it most. Just when you thought las chichas fresas couldn't get any more disgustingly cutesy, I spied this in a shop window. Part of me kind of wants to buy one because it's so horrid I have to have it, but I'd be too embarrassed to carry it.

And just so you don't all think I'm spending my time shopping for pop cultural artifacts, here's a photo of the place where I spent my weekend with a couple of girlfriends. Barra de Navidad is a relatively calm place, barely developed. No PV-style clubs, just people playing in the waves and sipping a beer or two on the beach, and in the morning the fishermen come out to bring in their nets.

Lola has to finish a paper. Three more days in Mexico!

¡Feliz 4 de julio!

2007-07-06T08:52:00.000-06:00

I had a rather un-American fourth. No fireworks, no picnics, and I avoided the kids from the US (some kids from the Casa got drunk and obnoxious enough to get booted from one of the wildest clubs in town. Thanks for making us look good, guys!) Since it was La Argentina's last full day here in Mexico, we set out to see some of the last places left unchecked on her things-to-see-in-Guad list. We went up to Zapopan, on the north end of town.
Zapopan used to be its own city (and technically it's still a separate municipality), a tiny quiet town center for the ranches outside of Guadalajara. Over the centuries as Guadalajara grew, the ranches turned into suburbs and Guad surrounded and swallowed Zapopan. It still has its old central district with its own basilica (which houses its own miraculous virgin figure, viva la virgen), and it's much quieter and relaxed than Guad's downtown area. We wandered around, took photos, saw the basilica, and then it started to rain. We got back on the bus to our part of town, with La Argentina and I thinking we'd see some more things after the rain let up, but El Portero, a lifelong tapatío, assured us that once it starts raining like it was, it doesn't let up for hours. Sure enough, the rain kept coming for another three hours, and the streets flooded, again. So much for our afternoon out. Zapopan was beautiful, though.

We'd also planned on going to a salsa club for La Argentina's last night in town, but El Portero ended up having to take his papá to the airport. Not wanting to go to a dance joint as two lone females, even a salsa place, we decided to have dinner on her company credit card at a mariachi restaurant. It's a fairly campy place, geared mostly toward tourists from other parts of Mexico who want to hear some local music when they come to Jalisco. The management takes the muy muy México theme a little over the top, but because of that it's also a fun (and funny) place to spend an evening. I spent my Fourth of July eating quesadillas and pineapple ice cream under a ceiling of piñatas and papel picado while listening to mariachis. And hey, that's what freedom is all about, right? And by the way, La Argentina actually likes those creepy mariachi pants. Shudder.

Happy (belated) Fourth, everyone!

Salsa de la calle

2007-07-03T13:32:00.000-06:00

The decadence of the Catholic Church (read: financially) has the interesting effect of old ecclesiastical edifices being put to (sometimes strange) new uses. In Michoacán I went to two different state-subsidized artisan's workshops in a former convent and former church, respectively, and last night we also hit a few altered sites. I didn't know I could find so much fun on a Monday night, but here's (more or less) how it went down.

La Argentina is leaving on Thursday, and we've decided this calls for going out every night between now and then to allow her to give a proper despedida to Mexico. Yesterday we were struggling to find something to do on a Monday night, when El Portero mentioned that a girl he's interested in had mentioned to him that on Monday nights one of the cafés in the Plaza of the Ex-Convento del Carmen puts on a little salsa gig, weather permitting (it's okay, it took me a moment to sort it out, too). We were up for that, so we settled on a time to meet and figured it couldn't be too complicated.

It rained yesterday afternoon, and hard. It was still sprinkling a little when La Argentina set out walking for the Ex-Convento. The chispa wasn't the problem-- it was the cars splashing us everytime they drove through the deep charcos on the edges of the streets. We were both more than a little damp around the ankles by the time by got to the plaza. The Ex-Convento, which has been converted into an art gallery that was closed at that hour, is actually across from the plaza, and once we figured out that part we found only one café open, and didn't get a clear answer on whether or not it was the salsa joint. El Portero was running half an hour late, but we couldn't get a table in the café to wait for him. We decided to find another café, but being unfamiliar with the neighborhood we just wandered past a few gay clubs. Finally El Portero and his crush found us and we tried to get into a Cuban restaurant with pictures of Che on the walls (every socialist Cuban's favorite Argentine), but the neanderthal at the door wouldn't accept La Argentina's foreign ID (we didn't even get around to my Colorado driver's license). We wandered a little more and ended up in what, by appearances, was the former rectory of the Ex-Convento converted into a goth joint. Not so. It may have looked goth, what with the low lighting and the weird paintings of monks and religious symbols on the walls, but I don't know any goth clubs where they play banda over the sound system (that's the Mexican equivalent of really bad country, for those of you lucky enough never to have been subjected to hearing it). Anyway, they had open tables, nice salads and a good view of the plaza, so we spent a while hanging out there, chatting. After a while El Portero's ears perked up and he asked if we heard the salsa, too. We looked out on the plaza and saw that the party had started across the street. We paid the tab and went to join them.

What we saw last night in the plaza was the kind of thing you dream of experiencing while travelling through Latin America. The plaza had mostly dried out after the rain, but the air was still clean and cool. The party was very simple, and nobody was dressed up. The entire band consisted of a guitarist, a trombonist, and two very busy percussionists, with all four of them alternating vocals. The music was simple but extremely lively and raw, with incredible rhythms. They were really tight. Reva, you would have loved it. The dancing was unpretentious and fun-- just average people out on a Monday night, enjoying the perfect temperature and lack of rain. We recognized a group of a about half a dozen dancers who had been in the floor show at a trandy Cuban club we'd been to a couple of weeks ago, but they were in jeans and tees instead of flashy costumes and there was no show, just the group of them playing around with different moves. They were incredible, don't get me wrong, and in that respect it was wonderful to watch, but it was unchoreographed, natural, and they were laughing and smiling with each other. The scene was wonderfully simple, improvised, plebian-- it was real life, and I think La Argentina and I were the only tourists there. I wish I could find something like that here every night. Tonight we're headed to the Feria de Tlaquepaque, something I gather to be the rough equivalent of a county fair, but a la mexicana. I'm bracing myself for the banda, but other than that I'm looking forward to it. More to follow.

Michoacán

2007-07-01T18:23:00.000-06:00

As promised, this entry will include ample photos from this weekend’s trip to Michoacán. However, that means I’ll likely skimp a little on text today. Enjoy the photos!

We left Guadalajara heading for Morelia, the capital of Michoacán and about a four-and-a-half hour drive. Once we got out of the city we passed miles and miles of verdant countryside, criss-crossed by rails, rivers, lakes, low-growing forest, and tiny ancient towns. The mountains around us got higher and more defined as we moved closer to Michoacán.

Once in Morelia, we checked into an old colonial hotel (reputedly haunted, but I didn’t see or hear anything except military helicopters flying low over the city in the middle of the night—maybe they drowned out the spirits).

We headed to a traditional restaurant (also very old) where we enjoyed enchiladas and serenades. The singer bore a striking resemblance to my great-aunts on the Crespín side.

Morelia is old. Around the same time as Guadalajara, the Spaniards established it as a colony in an area already populated and developed by indigenous peoples, but Morelia (formerly Valladolid) has maintained its colonial beauty while Guadalajara has given way to boxy architecture and modern urban sprawl.

I don’t mean to say Guad isn’t pretty, but it’s not as charming as Morelia, and the pace of life is more relaxed there.

Older than them both are the ruins of Tzintzuntzan, a ceremonial center on a bluff overlooking Lago Pátzcuaro. It was built centuries ago by the ancestors of the Pu’rhechpah (Tarasco) people. The site is impressive, but the most striking thing about the place is the view. The lake is spotted with small islands, many of the inhabited. One of them, Janitzio, is the center of the world-famous festival Día de los Muertos (a big event all around the lake, including the town of Pátzcuaro). Pu’rhechepah hold the waters sacred for many reasons, among them the belief that the barrier between the worlds of the living and the dead is much thinner on and around the lake.

After Tzintzuntzan we went on to Pátzcuaro itself, and I fell in love. It’s a charming place—red tile roofs over white-washed plaster, worn-down cobble streets giving way to narrow alleys as they wind upward into the hills—with a gentler pace of life that doesn’t lose its gusto for it.

In the tree-lined main plaza, children perform a traditional dance called “Los Viejitos”, that pokes fun at the pains of old age while paying tribute to “Tata Vasco”. An administrator and church official in New Spain, Bishop Vasco de Quiroga was beloved of the indigenous people for stepping in to spare them from the further ravages of his predecessor’s reign of terror, and for subsequently establishing schools, hospitals, and promoting cultivation and preservation of native culture (at least the parts that didn’t conflict too much with Catholicism). Many things in Pátzcuaro are still named and done in honor of Tata Vasco.

Pátzcuaro is a wonderful place to wander, talk to the friendly locals, eat too much, and lose track of time. My day in Pátzcuaro, though had the (unfortunate?) effect of making me miss my husband even more. I was sitting in a restaurant on a tiny terrace overlooking the plaza, waiting for my bowl of sopa tarasca (my new love) and breathing the mountain air when in an instant I wanted so very badly, more than usual, to have my husband in that empty chair across the table, sharing this moment. The sudden weight and power of the emotion caught me off guard. The solution of course, is to bring him back to Pátzcuaro with me in a few weeks. The short term solution was to finish lunch, have some chocolate and find him the perfect silly present in the shops selling catrinas and other Day of the Dead figures, something just for him.

We got back to Morelia in time for the fireworks in front of the cathedral. On summer weekend nights they close off the main street and the crowds pour in for the show. I was hungry by this time but resisted the cotton candy, knowing that we’d find real food after the fireworks.

As proof that Morelia, despite its colonial charm, holds its own as a modern city, some of the girls and I found an amazing menu at a decidedly trendy spot downtown.

We wandered through town a little more this morning, and then headed back to Guadalajara. I do love this city, and I’m comfortable here, but it was nice to get away for the weekend. It’ll be easier to fall back into the routine tomorrow. Lola says enjoy the moment!

De nuevo, escribo

2007-06-26T09:02:00.001-06:00

It’s been a week, so I guess I ought to update.

Yesterday afternoon and then again last night there were horrible strong rainstorms here in Guadalajara, and the area of town where I live and go to school were the hardest hit. Power went out, streets were flooded (the paper reports it was a meter deep on López Mateos at the height of the storm), trees were uprooted, all of which resulted in traffic snarls and accidents. I haven’t seen rainstorms like this since hurricane season in Louisiana. Last night as La Argentina and I walked home from the movie theatre, the street lights were all out and those few blocks back to the Casa were dark and a little unnerving. We arrived safe and unmolested, though. The rain started up again about an hour later, stronger than in the afternoon, this time with lightning and lots of thunder, and the power in the Casa kept blinking on and off.

I went out dancing with friends a couple of times last week. We’re a small group—La Argentina, La Francesa, El Portero (a Mexican) y yo—but it’s easier to get a table that way, and easier to avoid drawing attention to ourselves as (mostly) foreigners. Speaking only Spanish also helps, and people tend to ignore our un-Mexican accents. We had a good time, minus the unfortunate distractions caused by my fellow countrywomen (see parenthetical rant below). The place where the Portero took us on Tuesday had good music, but there was an awesome show and live band at the Cuban club we found on Friday. Recorded salsa music is fine and I’ve never been one to complain about a good DJ, but nothing beats live music. The dance floor was packed so there wasn’t really room to do anything fancy, anyway I’m not especially good at those things. Spins are about as complicated as I get. If someone tries to lead me into anything more I start stepping on my feet.

(Parenthetically: I had a long rant prepared about the shocking and trashy behaviors of slutty norteamericanas who make a spectacle of themselves in dance clubs and other public places, but I’ll but it down to this: I deduce from your actions that you’re shy on self respect, so it’s a tall order but I wish you would think about how your actions reflect on the rest of us who do in fact respect ourselves and our sexuality. We are not all like you, you are just a minority, but we still have to deal with the reputation you construct for all of us, even when we’re just walking down the street. Crossing a border is not license to drink like Hemingway and dance like a cheap hooker. It reflects on all of us, and it’s your fault we have such a nasty reputation abroad, it’s your fault that “gringa” is synonymous with “cheap” and “exploitable”. I pity you and resent you.)

In further salsa news, dance lessons at school are moving along well, and I’ve got a regular partner and we’re learning to work together. He’s a nice German kid. Class went well until the storm cut the power (we have class in the basement theatre, with no windows or natural light). Also yesterday, Raúl (the instructor, and yes, he fits all the stereotypes you might have of a fruity latin dance instructor, we love him) let the cat out of the bag that we’ll be performing our routine for the rest of the students on the last day of school for those who want to participate. Amidst jokes about finding matching flowing red dresses, el alemán and I are wondering if we really want to do that. . . watch this space for updates.

Certainly the most exciting thing to happen this week is that I started the text of my novel (this is especially satisfying/consoling since my “preliminary research” isn’t coming together the way I’d hoped) I’ve only got a little so far, but I’m generally pleased with it. In my writing class (which isn’t really a creative writing class, by the way, it’s mostly mechanics and style) we went over Horacio Quiroga’s decalogue of rules for good writing, and I saw on that list the things that have been holding me up. A couple of the rules that stood out to me:

V. No empieces a escribir sin saber desde la primera palabra adónde vas. En un cuento bien logrado, las tres primeras líneas tienen casi la importancia de las tres últimas. (Don’t start writing without knowing from the first word where you’re headed. In a well-contsructed story, the first three lines are almost as important as the last three).

VIII. Toma a tus personajes de la mano y llévalos firmemente hasta el final, sin ver otra cosa que el camino que les trazaste. . . (Take your characters by the hand and lead them determinedly to the end, without being distracted by anything other than the path you’ve laid out for them. . .)

I realized I’d been trying to write without having fully developed the story line or the characters, thinking those things would magically take shape along the way. So, I spent the next several days really thinking about what I want this novel to say, and how to do that. I eliminated some elements and decided where in the tale I want to begin and end, and spent some time in character development. Yesterday I started writing the text. I’m pleased with it so far. It already needs some clean up, but I’ve started. I also realize this is going to be a longer process than I’d anticipated. It feels so good, though, to be using creative energy. I’ve missed writing. I’ve missed being creative. Yesterday between the storms I took a pause in my walk home (the streets were still somewhat flooded) to stop at a café, where I sat alone with my lunch and my laptop and wrote. I felt so good, so productive.

My husband is also astoundingly supportive of my writing. We’ve talked on the phone a couple of times about what I’m writing and the breakthroughs I’ve had, and I can hear in his voice how happy he is about it. I am the luckiest girl in the world. I miss him so much. Reva, I’m starting to get an inkling of how you felt when Jared was gone in Brazil. Of course, I’m the one who gets to go somewhere exciting and he’s the one left at home, and I’m not seven months pregnant and wondering if I’m going to get a visa in time to give birth, and that’s why I say “an inkling”. It’s an odd kind of missing someone. I miss him so much, and in ways I didn’t anticipate. The last several days I’ve been thinking about a conversation that Reva and I had more than a year ago, about being happily married. I think I’d been married just a few months at the time, and she was barely pregnant. We both had long years of single-hood with what I think was more than our fair share of disappointment, and are both surprised at how lucky we got in marriage. In that conversation she made the comment that some days she can’t believe it’s real, that maybe she’s not really allowed to be this content and blessed, that she keeps waiting for someone to pull the rug out from under her again. I agreed. Presently, I feel much more secure in my marriage (funny how time and even distance should have that effect) and I’m not anxious that it’s all going to fall apart just because everything else did, I’ve gotten over that. But, there are still many days that I find myself wondering how I possibly deserve him. I’m not saying I don’t deserve to be happy, but I am amazed by just how wonderful he is, and how good to me.

I’ll stop before I get too schmoopy. Suffice to say, it’s been a good, productive week, and the creative juices are flowing again. Here’s to waiting out nasty storms.

Instrucciones para pasar el tiempo

2007-06-19T15:11:00.001-06:00

It’s been several days since my last post, and in lieu of a thoughtful entry I’m just going to enumerate some of the mildly interesting things that have happened since then (you’re all thrilled, I know).

1. Some friends and I went to a church festival at the local parish, dedicated to San Antonio. I learned only in the last few years that he’s the patron saint of single women seeking husbands, and I also learned some fun tricks that a woman can use, like hanging San Antonio upside down to coerce him into bringing her a husband. A friend told me a story about a woman, tired of waiting and praying in vain, who threw her San Antonio out the window. The statue hit a handsome and charming passerby in the head, who picked up the statue and went knocking doors to return the misplaced Saint to his rightful owner. Of course, when he knocked on the woman’s door they both fell in love at first sight and promptly married happily ever after, which just goes to show that San Antonio really was doing his job. Mexican women, at least in my neighborhood, go to the festival once a year and ask for a coin from three different men in the crowd. Once they’ve procured them, they get at the end of a line that wraps around the block so they can give their three-coin offering to the figure of San Antonio in the church and plead with him that this year he really will bring them a husband. I wasn’t able to get solid information from anyone there as to whether or not the new husband would be one of the three one who coughed up a coin, but there was a general non-committal agreement on that point. We also saw an anticlimactic fireworks display and ate some buñuelos that our friend Daniel bought. Daniel works at a bookstore and he’s going to hook me up.

2. My writing professor had us read some of Julio Cortazar’s “Instrucciones para. . .[varias cosas]”, which are absurd little descriptions of how to properly do really simple things, e.g., “Instrucciones para llorar” (“How to cry”). He then assigned us ridiculous instructions of our own. I thought I went a little over the top on mine (“Instrucciones para comer con palillos chinos”/”How to eat with chopsticks”) but then he told me I write well and asked if I’ve ever thought of it as a career. I was duly flattered.

3. I went to my denomination’s church meetings on Sunday morning (LDS) which lacked a carnival atmosphere but abounded in kind people. It’s a small congregation, so I met most everyone, and was pleasantly surprised that I understood everything that everyone said. Some days I feel better about this language than others. Sunday was a good day.

4. I started taking a salsa class. The class is mostly girls, and yet somehow I, the old married lady, ended up having a male partner (maybe it’s because I’m the old married lady—it’s non-threatening). It was hot in the room and I got very sweaty but I also learned some fun moves and refined a few as well. I’m going to be a dancing machine again here soon. . .

5. Speaking of sweaty, I also went to my very first capoeira class last night. I am very sore. It was fun but I have lots to learn.

And that, dear friends, is what Lola’s been doing the last few days. I am enjoying Guadalajara and might even take some more photos to share soon. Chau for now.

La comida que cura

2007-06-13T14:44:00.000-06:00

Several years ago I took a wonderful anthropology class in my last semester at Metro, a medical anthropology class taught by a delightful professor who’d worked in health care in New Mexico and was well acquainted with the delicate and difficult task of blending western and traditional healing for the patients’ benefit. One of the major themes in the class was the concept of food as medicine/medicine as food, which harks back to earlier lessons in Anthropology 101 in which we learn that we don’t all perceive “food” the same way cross-culturally. Well sure, food is what you eat, what you ingest with the general idea that it will sustain life, while medicine (in its oral indications, anyway) is what you will ingest in the hopes it will restore or maintain vibrant life. Many cultures build grand rituals and subcultures around their gastronomy. Look at the French. Mmm, the pastries, ooh la la. . .but I digress. Food is what you eat, but what will you eat? What do you and your culture define as “food”, suitable for ingestion under quotidian circumstances? What would you ingest as medicine that you’d push away on a plate or in a chilled glass, and which foods’ “curative” powers would you doubt, because they’re only food?

Why do I bring up all the anthrobabble? Two days ago while walking past a taquería on the south side of downtown, beyond the well-scrubbed picturesque plazas between the cathedral and the opera house and into the gritty, sweaty, noisy, human neighborhoods, I spied a pile of pig snouts waiting to be chopped into fine pieces and shoveled into tortillas and laden with salsas and pickled carrots for a clientele who seem not bothered in the least by the origins of their fare. Anyway, the snouts were easily identifiable and in plain view, right behind the glass up again the sidewalk, so any Fulano who stops for a quick snort, I mean bite, knows what he’s buying, so I can only assume there’s no trickery here, except maybe a horrid sacrilegious joke on a blind, hungry Jew or Muslim who can’t see what’s they’re serving him. Yet another reason for me to avoid the pork tacos, at least in that neighborhood. I promise there’s a point to the pig snouts, I’m not just testing your stomach. Moving on: a few blocks later I walked past a market where, a few years ago while wandering the folk medicine/witchcraft section (I still don’t consider love spells “medicine”) I happened upon a serpentine mess of what appeared to be desiccated, skinned, and decapitated carcasses hanging down long and precariously from the edge of a stall. ¿Cascabeles?, I wondered. I verified the identity of the suspect remains with the proprietress and in our subsequent chat she swore to me that rattlesnake, ground up and served as a tea, alleviates the sufferings of cancer patients and in some cases even cures the disease itself. I was doubtful, but having seen loved ones bear the ravages of chemotherapy in hopes (often vain, I might add) of a cure or a respectable spell of remission, I promised myself at that moment that if it came down to it, I’d try a few swigs of her rattlesnake brew before submitting myself to chemo.

Am I really less disgusted by drinking reconstituted snake powder than the possibility of running across a pig booger in my taco? Honestly, yes. Ponder the swine mucous for a moment and you’ll come around. Would I eat the snout tacos if I thought they might cure cancer? Hmm. That’s a tougher decision. How much would I have to eat, and for how long? Here chemo might come out on top. On the flip side, I’d do snake as medicine, but I’d only eat it to be polite or if I were raving hungry and had no other options. Sure it’s “food”, it’s muscle tissue, and more appetizing than a pig’s septum, but don’t look for me to be ordering rattlesnake tenderloin (because snake have “loins”, don’t you know) at a Cowboy Old-West theme restaurant. I grew up in the mountain west eating wild game and I have nothing to prove.

Mexicans eat menudo, some because they like it and others only to stave off or diminish hangovers. Many people in the US don’t like Jägermeister strictly because it reminds them of NyQuil. My husband and other more easterly-bound travelers than myself tell me that Russians despise root beer, because their cough syrups have the same flavor. What would they think of Sonic’s recent promotion offering free root beer floats to kick off the summer? Who doesn’t like root beer floats? Go ahead, say it—“That’s just plain un-American”. Of course it is.

So back to the original point of this unappetizing reflection: food is what you eat, but what will you eat, and why do you eat it? Do you detest broccoli and salmon and dark chocolate but eat them anyway because your doctor told you to? What else would you eat if you thought it might cure or prevent illness? What would you eat to be polite? During study group or even in a less seasoned anthropology professor’s lecture, this topic can quickly degenerate into a gross-out-fest in which students compare the nastiest thing they’ve ever eaten. Even in that discussion, though, listen up, because everyone’s “worst food” is likely to be an animal product, and probably from an animal or body part that your culture doesn’t consider “food”, or in an unacceptable condition (raw, rotten). Sorry, but no one’s going much impressed by even the worst tofu burger, not when the other contestants are blood sausage, fish heads, and goat with the singed hair still attached.

Anyway, this morning I went back to that same crazy market, Mercado Libertad, with another seasoned Guadtrotter to show it to a newbie in the city, and she was duly amazed by it. (I also rode the subway for the first time here, which was fast but extremely crowded as one expects a subway to be). I looked around again for the rattlesnake hocker, and found her again in the same spot, but the rest of that brujería section of the market has sadly diminished since my last extended stay here, and most the area is now filled with DVD pirates. I also looked and looked for a pile of pig snouts to illustrate this entry, but alas, found none. I did, however, capture some pigs feet, and a creative use for limes and a defleshed goat skull (doesn’t it look like those drawings of El Chupacabras?). If you're interested, the going rate for pigs feet is 18pesos/kilo. That's about 80 cents a pound, guys, cheap animal protein! I’ve spared you the more graphic images like the skinned lambs’ heads and piles of hearts and tripas, but if you want to see them, you know where to go.

Eat up, friends. Lola’s having salad for dinner.

Fiesta de Mariachi

2007-06-11T12:26:00.001-06:00

Today was the first day of school, but not the first day of classes. We had orientation, placement testing, and a Mariachi Party out in the rear courtyard. Obviously the Mariachis were the best part of the school day. How often do you get that? I'm not always a big fan of the genre, and normally I can only take it in for short periods of time (read: a set of three songs, tops). These guys, though, were thoroughly entertaining, and they had a fun blend of the traditional with healthy doses references to pop music and culture thrown in, and lots of (sometimes coerced) audience participation. Throughout the set, they picked on about half a dozen unsuspecting souls and sang to them, danced with them, sat on the them, etc. Add tacos, salsa and horchata, and you've got a dang good party for the middle of the day.

It's odd to be back here, and stranger still to be here by myself. We were a group of twelve when I came before, and fairly tight by the time we got here, and closer still by the time we left. I feel much more like an observer this time around. The vast majority of the students are in large groups (between 25 and 60+) representing about six or seven universities in the US. Most appear to be quite a bit younger than me, and a few significantly older (My parents' age). They're already establishing their social groups, and I don't know whether I should lament that or not. The truth is that I'm not interested in hanging out with kids my students' age who will likely drink unsafe and astounding quantities of alcohol since they can do it legally here, in public, no fake ID required. I did that last time (hung out with them, not drank myself silly, that is). However, there's still this tiny part of me that wants to be liked. Oh well. Now that I've got a phone (!) I can get in touch with my old friends here and speak Spanish with real Mexicans instead of more students. Also, classes will start tomorrow and I'll meet more people, at least the ones in my class. I don't want to give the impression that people are unfriendly, because everyone seems pretty nice (espcially the group from Valdosta, bless their southern hearts). I should give myself some slack in my rate of adjustment-- I've still only been here three days. At least I speak the language already and I'm not concerned about trying to hook up with some young hunk, because I've got a nicely aged one at home and minimal drama in my life. Just in those two respects I've got it significantly easier than lots of these kids.

I'll sign off with a couple of little observations. First, Reva, there is an avocado tree in the courtyard here at the school. I never noticed it before because it was giving flowers rather than fruit when I was here in the spring. The tree is huge, big enough to climb, with fat fruits that will be the size of Solei's head when they're done (okay, maybe not that big, but they're huge).

Also, I while I kind of like Mariachi, I've always been more than a little creeped out by the pants. The worst ones I've ever seen were skin-tight leather. NOT sexy, just icky and awful. The ones from today weren't so bad, but they weren't so good, either. At left we observe an illustration of some mildly unnerving pants. Nothing quite like Mariachi-butt to spice up your day.

My man wears normal pants, and for that and many other reasons I love him.

Well, buenas nalgas, I mean noches, everyone. Enjoy!

A solas

2007-06-11T05:48:00.000-06:00

As the plane was setting down on Friday, it occurred to me that this is my first solo trip abroad. I’ve managed to get alone time before when I’ve traveled, but this is the first time I’ve arrived alone. It feels strange and good and not nearly so liberating or empowering as I’d hoped. I’m a bit underwhelmed in already knowing I can get by just fine on my own here, that a solo trip to Guadalajara is nothing daring. Now Tunisia, that would have made me feel like a bigger woman, even traveling with a group of fellow lingua-nerds.

I perceive myself as a pretty solitary person. I always spent lots of time alone, even as a child (weird, nerdy little kids don’t always have friends), and as an adult I work and study alone a great deal of the time. This isn’t to say that I haven’t developed social skills, and I think I do well socially and am blessed with wonderful friends, but I also know that I start to go a little crazy when I don’t get a few hours of time alone every day. Perhaps that’s why I’m such a madrugadora, so that I can start the day out right by myself before anyone else is awake, like today. My best friend and I are opposites in this way; she needs a steady diet of interaction with people to keep from going crazy, and need a break from other people to maintain that sometimes delicate mental balance.

All that said, I can’t believe how much I missed my husband this weekend. Not that he isn’t miss-able—he’s wonderful company. I just didn’t think I’d miss him this much, this soon. We talked briefly on Saturday (when I called he was over at my parents’ house helping my Dad with some things, what a guy!) and I told him I missed him more than I thought I would, but that I figured things would feel socially normalized after the weekend when I get into a routine. The days aren’t so bad—I love walking through the city and getting my bearings and taking in all of this. There is so much to appreciate, like the faded red-and-white checkerboard sidewalks and the sounds of mass and singing coming out little corner churches in the morning, and how it’s so green and things grow everywhere, and oh, the people. Watching the people is the best of all. The nights are harder, though, and I realize that I’ve become accustomed to spending my evenings, even just the last few minutes before sleep, winding down with my husband, and to falling asleep curled up with him. I also miss my cell phone, and feel strangely disconnected without it (though I’m getting used to that, too). I’m one of those people in the habit of calling someone and making commentary when I see something funny. Usually it’s my brother or my best friend, or my husband if he’s not busy at work or in class. Countless times this weekend I saw something striking or amusing and wanted to tell someone, only to remember that I didn’t have a cellphone capable of calling the US. It occurs to me that maybe this is how I manage to spend so much time alone these days; I’m still just a ring away from the people I love most and who appreciate/share my twisted take on life’s little oddities.

On a humorous note, shortly after I left on Friday my husband locked himself out of the house, maybe because I couldn’t make him check for his keys as he left, and on Saturday I ate popcorn at the movies (yes, I went to the movies alone) and got stomach cramps because my husband wasn’t around to remind me not to eat movie popcorn. Funny how we otherwise “independent” people let ourselves slip into dependence when we marry.

Yesterday evening I made a friend. I was in the kitchen fixing a light dinner (I’ve moved into the University guest house) and there was a nice Argentine girl there. We started chatting and talked for a while. She’s also married, here alone without her husband, close to my age, and studying something different than the kids from the US. It’s good to make another friend. Of course, being Argentine, she’s totally useless from the standpoint of my improving my hypothesis-in-the-making about patterns of Mexican speech, and that’s nice. I can enjoy talking to her without trying to observe the little nuances of her word choices and intonation.

I have to get ready for school. I’m glad I already made friends with the Argentine because I’m not sure how much I’m going to have in common with the other students here. I’m kind of an old woman. More to come.

Llegué

2007-06-09T12:09:00.000-06:00

I’m sitting at a window table in a favorite café in Guadalajara enjoying a deliciously spicy plate of chilaquiles, and outside there’s a tiny large-eyed girl in curly pigtails carrying her own little purse and wearing rainbow-striped shoes a little to big for her miniscule feet. She might be as old as three, but I doubt it. She’s smiling at me, trying to get my attention. I just smiled back and waved, and she acted coy. Little children can be charming when their numbers aren’t overwhelming. This solitary child, for example, who entertains herself by climbing around on the planters in front of the café while here mother peddles cheap jewelry from the sidewalk, is making me think I might want a coy little girl of my own.

You gather then, that I made it—I arrived in Guadalajara yesterday afternoon, not quite 24 hours ago. My hotel is an old colonial palace converted to a hotel, and the window of my room looks out on this rear interior courtyard. It's in the middle of downtown, but it's peaceful. I’ve been reorienting myself to the parts of the city that I do know and the little nuances of the culture that I forget about until I’m here again. I’m struck by how un-Mexican I am when I’m here. I may be a nice Hispanic girl, but I am definitely from another place and another culture. Mexico is so distinct. My little expectations, both good and bad, of how people around me will behave are constantly unmet and flouted. In general everyone is more friendly, polite and helpful than I’m used to, but it’s also common for men here to stare at women, to make flirtatious (and sometimes derogatary, to my North American sensibilities) comments to woman as they walk down the street, and sometimes to hiss at women as they walk past. Yes, hiss. I’ve only gotten the hiss twice since I got here, though. All this attention might border on flattering if it weren’t so demeaning, and it’s not like it makes me special. They do it to any girl or woman past the merest sign of puberty. Then there are the smells, the sounds, the way of talking to people, the way to cross the street and navigate traffic, the way to meet or not meet someone’s gaze, and remembering not to flush the toilet paper. So many things about me betray me as a foreigner, and more than anything I think it’s my carriage and body language. I don’t walk like a Mexican woman, and they don’t walk like me. I’m just different, I guess.

This is not to say I’m not enjoying the readjustment process. A large part of it is geography, and that’s kind of fun. I’m staying downtown for a couple of days until I move into my room at the university guest house, and so little has changed downtown. I bet it hasn’t changed in decades, and when it does I think those changes are small, piling up over the centuries into the embedded mess it is now. It can feel a little claustrophobic, but luckily for this western girl, Guadalajara is laid out more or less in a grid system and therefore relatively easy to learn and navigate, downtown being the simplest. El Centro is fascinating and lively but slightly sketchy, so yesterday afternoon I headed west to my old neighborhood to buy a phone with a local number at a US-style mall (officially Centro Magno, aka Centro Gringo and loaded with fresas). There’s also an amazing salad restaurant there, and I indulged in a massive plate of veggies and a bladder-buster-size, all-fruit smoothie. Traditional Mexican food has that nasty reputation as a major artery-clogger, but less publicized is the quantity and quality of the local produce. If you’ve never eaten a fresh Mexican avocado, you don’t know what you’re missing. I know that silly rule about not eating any produce you didn’t peel yourself while traveling abroad, blah blah blah, but this is Mexico, and urban Mexico at that, and anyway my system’s always done a good job of digesting whatever I throw at it. I know to avoid (some) taco stalls on rural roadsides. I’m not going to deny myself a big yummy salad when the place is clean.

And then there are the religious festivals. Last night as I made my way back downtown on the slow, jerky old streetcar, every church we passed east of Chapultepec was surrounded by crowds of people in matching-colored tees waving matching-colored balloons and singing hymns. I was confused. The crowds got bigger as we went east, eventually merging into a massive congregation lining the streets and filling the plazas downtown. In my curiosity I asked a police officer what was going on, and he unenthusiastically informed me that it was a religious processional carrying a statue from one church to another. He didn’t seem too religious himself. Sure enough, as I walked past the main cathedral, they were testing the sound system on a large stage on the front steps, and a rather important-looking cardinal-type was nodding approvingly. I entertained the idea of coming back to see the whole thing go down, but being rather sleepy and not a Catholic, I’d given it up by the time I got back to my hotel several blocks from the main plaza. I read and watched TV for a while before dozin off fully clothed in the middle of the bed, on top of the covers. I woke up later chilled and uncomfortable, and climbed into bed. Sleeping without my husband is going to be an adjustment process, as well.

I’m going to go to my old favorite bookstore here before I track down the place I’ll be living. Should you find yourself in a major city in Mexico, I recommend that you find local Librería Gandhi. It’s a happy place, especially if you are a reader. Lola has a day and a half to play before classes start.

Lavandería

2007-05-25T19:51:00.000-06:00

This is mostly for Reva's benefit, but here's a little more domestic geekiness for you. The photo is of the sexiest washer-dryer combo I've ever seen, spied by me and my mom last week while we wandered Lowe's in search of good potting soil. I know only two things about it:

1. It' s made by Samsung.

2. This is the first time I'm ever felt turned on by a household appliance.

You want one, don't you? The sweet irony of my posting this is that I haven't done laundry in weeks and my lovely, patient, overworked husband is down to one clean pair of socks. I should get on that.

In a change to my recent modus operandi, I didn't cook today. Yesterday and today I met good girlfriends for lunch, and thanks to both of them I feel a renewal of both creative energy and motivation to hit my MA reading list. My (possibly unrealistic) plan for summer is to read a book a week, taking detailed notes, and to start work on the Great Not-So-American Novel. Lola feels a creative surge coming on, and this time it's far less calorically dense.

Relajada

2007-05-24T20:03:00.001-06:00

So, I lived through the end of the semester, barely. I got wonderful grades in the seminars I was worried about and a dismal grade in the blow-off undergrad class I was painfully required to take. I guess that’s what I get for exerting minimal effort. Oh well. It was (barely) a decent enough grade to keep me from getting booted from the MA program, which is a little frightening. How pathetic would that be, to be dismissed from the program for getting a low grade in an undergrad class? At least I’m past having to deal with that possibility.

In other news, I was rejected by the State Department along with about 3200 other applicants to the Arabic program (for 150 positions, so I don’t feel so bad) and consequently will not be spending my summer in Tunisia. Truthfully, I’m relieved in some ways, and I had bought a ticket to Guadalajara before I got the rejection notice from the government, but I still felt a little stung by the rejection. I should have anticipated it-- really, “Spanish is related historically to Arabic and that‘s why you should give me this scholarship” is a far weaker argument than something along the lines of “I’m studying conflict resolution” or “I hope to do intelligence work” or other tailored statements that were likely presented by students of international relations or economics or other shiny pretty useful disciplines. Sigh. I guess I’ll just go hang in La Ciudad de la Primavera Eterna for the summer and take in some art and music and good food. I’m pretending to be productive by taking a writing class at UdeG and “gathering preliminary conversational data for the purposes of hypothesis construction”, but we all know this is really about spending some time unplugged and re-immersed. Also, the husband will be joining me at the end of the summer, and I’m excited about that. Él no habla español, and I’ll have to interpret for him, but part of me is tempted to keep my mouth shut and let him see how far he can get on his own-- you know, force him to learn the language just like I had to. Though, I’m sure he’ll feel more annoyed than desperate with a bilingual wife at his side. Maybe we can play hide-and-seek in the city, with me hiding and leaving hints in Spanish and making him come find me. That’d make him learn!

Enough poking fun at my pobre güerito. He’s such a great sugar daddy and I should be nice to him.

I’ve been cooking for him lots lately. I have so much time on my hands. I was lost the first few days after the semester was over, but I rediscovered my kitchen and I’ve been experimenting. The latest project has been learning crème brulée. A few things I’ve learned:

1. My oven overheats and doesn’t heat consistently. 350 is really around 400 in some spots. Adjusting for this is tricky. I hate my oven.

2. Undercooked custard is creepy and foul.

3. Vanilla beans ground up into the sugar turn to cinders under the torch, and they taste awful.

4. Orange extract in the crème makes it smell, but not taste, like Dream-sicle.

5. Eating experimental crème brulées day after day makes me feel extravagant and fat.

Yesterday I finally got it right. If I can repeat that performance I can be impressive at potlucks. Oooh, such a goal. . .I am finding, though, that I kind of enjoy the whole house-wife thing. Of course, I’m neglecting all things domestic that take place outside of the kitchen, like laundry, but Queen of the Kitchen sounds almost as nice as Dr.. . .Just how appealing is that PhD?

Some words of wisdom from everyone’s favorite Mexican feminist nun will wrap up this entry:
“Si Aristóteles hubiera guisado, mucho más hubiera escrito”. Ha! Who says you can’t learn chemistry at home?

Vacilando

2007-04-11T12:50:00.000-06:00

Not much has changed here—I’m still working through the end-of-semester madness, trying to make my papers take form and make sense, trying to keep my students motivated, trying to find a five spare minutes to spend with my husband, blah blah blah. I have four more weeks of this. All the same, I needed to vent something today.

So, I usually consider myself relatively unflappable and as such I’m not one to react to news of bombings in parts of the world that I might visit soon, but this morning when I heard on the radio that al-Qaeda had left a pair of presents in Algeria, it made my insides quiver in an unexpected way. Granted, if they award me the fellowship I’m not even headed to Algeria—it would be next door, to Tunisia—but I’ve always thought of that part of the Islamic world as more moderate, more secular, more modern, more tolerant—all those good things that make it easier to live in peace with one’s fellows. It just bothered me to know that al-Qaeda is becoming active in northwest Africa. Why? Why does this bother me now? Rewind twelve and a half years, to a younger me getting news that there had been a massive bus bombing in Tel Aviv, about a week before I left to spend the tail end of my semester there (suicide bombings in Israel were relatively less frequent then than now). It didn’t worry me, and I still went. I stayed a few blocks away from where the human bomb had detonated himself, and it seemed that everyone I talked to had known someone on that bus. My heart went out to them and I felt sympathy for the way they live(d) their lives, knowing every day when they walked out the door that this could be the day they died in a bombing, or worse, to lose someone close and go on living without them. I marveled at the acceptance, at the simple response of living in and enjoying every day without being obsessive or dramatic about it in the face of possibly impending doom. Perhaps because of that, I wasn’t afraid, either. And perhaps it was because I was naïve? There is part of me, though, that refuses to be terrorized by terror. Stubbornness is not always the best approach to things, I know, but why should I let anyone make me afraid? Why should I let anyone destroy my lifestyle because they don’t approve of it? Two days after 9/11 I went out dancing with my girlfriends. Not in insensitivity, not in lack of mourning, but in protest and defiance, to show that I was not afraid, that the terror had not gotten to me. I think I learned that from the Israelis. I don’t think it’s hedonism so much as a reverence for life; a principle that every day should be well-lived precisely because it is so precious, whether it’s cut off in two days or fifty years.

Mind you, I’m not saying that I’m worried that fundamentalists will overrun North Africa in the next few months and do horrid things to all westerners and sympathizers, and I’m not saying I’m going to stay home because of any such (irrational) fears. However, I’ve already been reconsidering accepting this fellowship (if they offer it to me—still no word) for many other reasons, and now security has been added to (the bottom of) that list. I’m not afraid. I don’t think I’d even say worried. Does concerned capture it? Or am I looking for excuses because I want someone else to make the decision easy for me?

At this point it’s come down to either taking the hypothetically-offered fellowship, or spending the summer in Mexico polishing my Spanish (which it needs badly, let me assure you). Both are so appealing in so many ways, and I’m trying to make my decision based on what’s most practical, what will serve me best now that I’m considered making my MA my terminal degree. I’m trying to ignore the siren call of what will be most exciting, and do what’s practical. When have I ever been know to be practical? That’s my husband’s forte, not mine, and that’s why I married him. Even so, it’s not the sort of decision I can ask him to make for me (not many of those out there, anyway).

I really want a quiet moment to sit by myself and consider all of this as rationally as I can manage, and to make a good decision based on solid, arguable things, rather than my usually modus operandi of “that would be cool! I’ll do that!”. A quiet moment. Hah. Can this decision wait until the end of the semester? I think maybe it can.

Cansada, confusa

2007-04-06T15:19:00.000-06:00

I am so tired. Last night I got my first decent night’s sleep in at least a week, maybe longer. I can go a good four days or so on lousy sleep, but more than that and it begins to wear on me. It makes me sluggish, less talkative, and probably irritable. So, I feel better after last night, but I need another one. Badly. Wednesday night after class some of my colleagues asked if everything was alright—apparently I was not as participatory as usual during seminar. This leaves me wondering whether my students notice, and that leaves me feeling paranoid that they think that their prof is cracking up and won’t pay attention to what I’m teaching them, and believe it or not I still care, even at this point in the semester, whether or not they can conjugate verbs correctly and understand what’s going on in class. And of course I want for them to like Spanish, not just understand it.

I’ve been having a mildly existential crisis about the whole point of my current pursuits— whether it matters at all if I get my MA, and whether which has been further aggravated by recent developments, i.e., the collapse of my committee. My chair is taking another much-needed semester of leave, for which I do not criticize her in the least, and the second member, who has been aptly filling in for my chair while she’s been gone this semester, is taking a desirable post at another university, and if I were in his shoes I’d do the same thing. I had not yet chosen the third member of my committee. This leaves me, then, with my committee chair, who will be an absentee until the semester in which I am tentatively slated to take my exams. We supposedly have a new linguist coming in the fall, but I was sick the day he was here on campus so I never met him. He’ll likely be on my committee by default, and then I’ll have to convince someone form the Linguistics department to please, please please be on my committee. The departing professor has recommended a linguistic anthropologist whom I have never met (that’s my fault—I haven’t taken the initiative to wander by her office in my hours and hours of spare time). She’s amazing apparently, but I still haven’t ever met her—and she doesn’t speak Spanish. None of the Linguistics faculty do. Does this mean I’ll have to take my exams in English? That just doesn’t feel right, somehow.

Not only am I committee-less, I also don’t have an established reading list. I’m supposed to build one with my chair. Yes, that would be that chair who’s out until next January. Exams are next March. I’m guessing we’ll do it by email or something. Guessing, hoping, desperately reaching for a viable solution—what’s the difference? There are some pieces of the literature that are standard and therefore obvious, but it has to be more than that, and I need some guidance. No use worrying too much about it, of course, since the only thing I can do right now is track down the super-busy linguistic anthropologist and try to butter her up. Reva suggested I find out what her favorite cookie is, jajaja.

Which leads me back to the existential query of whether or not my chosen path makes any sense or difference in the rest of my life. What is “the rest of my life”? Except for that mind-numbing stint as a file clerk, all I’ve ever done is academics. I’ve gotten sick of the esotericism of the ivory tower before, which is what got me out of anthropology (twice, and this second time doesn’t seem to be sticking too well, either), but I keep getting seduced back into it. How can something that has so little bearing on the rest of the world be so appealing? I know that to get anything done out there you’ve got to have a theoretical or ideological basis for it, but how do I keep getting wrapped up in the theory and the ideology instead of the work itself? How can I find some balance? What’s the real point, if any, of dedicating my life to academic pursuits? On the other hand, I know (from experience) that I’m not really happy or fulfilled when I’m entirely outside of it, either. I feel like I need to keep on foot in the academic world while I try to establish what “the rest of my life” is, now that I have someone else in my life and think often and seriously about starting a family with him. Even now without any offspring around, I want more time for the “family” that is just him and me. I’d like to have more time to enjoy married life, because I love our time together, and academics is always sucking more and more of my time, and I don’t see that ever changing for as long as I stay in it.

GAH. These are not problems with easy solutions, and they won’t be solved by a few good hours of hard thinking and meditation. I love academics and research, I really do, but not as much as my husband, and I feel like school has hijacked my life. How do I make this work? Is it worth it? Does academic pursuit have any meaning outside of itself? Where does my autonomy fit in all of this?

Para empezar. . .

2007-04-01T12:26:00.000-06:00

Hoy, en inglés.

Not much interesting to say today, just that I've decided to start blogging again, but in a different place since my life has changed so significantly (and in some ways, not) since I last blogged. I've spent the last several days visiting my best friend in Atlanta, and she is a prolific and persistent blogger and now I feel inspired. Además, I'm waiting (not very patiently, by the way) to find out whether I've been selected to receive a fellowship to study Arabic in North Africa for the summer, so if I get it I'll need a way to keep everyone updated with news and photos if/when my life gets exciting again after the end of the semester. For now though, it's finals time and I have huge papers and exams to write, and, unfortunately, grade. Grading is definitely the worst part of my job. For that I should be grateful, I suppose, but don't be surprised if a tirade about grading emerges soon.

At any rate, I'm getting started again. The next month or so is likely to be stressful and unexciting, but after that there should be some more interesting posts to follow those days.