"Hay que morir para vivir." -Experiences at a funeral in rural Mexico

I came back on the bus to El Encino Sunday, and my host mom told me there had been a death. It turns out, the dad of the girl that I walk to the secondary school with every Tuesday and Thursday passed away suddenly that morning. My host mom (who we will call Sandra) said she was going to the velorio, and asked if I wanted to come, and I said yes. It was dark. I saw some cars parked in the dirt clearing that is often used as a baseball field. I assumed people from Aldama and Irapuato had traveled to pay their respects. I could see the glow of lights and hear the chatter of villagers as we approached. A velorio is the equivalent of a wake in the ranchos. Sandra told me that in the cities, many people us funeral homes and hire morticians, but there are no such things in the ranchos. Thus, when someone dies, the velorio is held in the house that day (or the next if the death occurs very late), and the funeral mass and burial are the day following. It has to be fast. The body isn't being preserved in any way.

We got to the house and walked down some steps next to a room that was lit. At the bottom of the steps was a crowd of people sitting under plastic tarps that were being used as a canopy to shield guests from the rain. Most people were sitting talking quietly. I could see several of the children of the family sitting farther away from everyone. The man had 13 children, ranging from 6 years to a son in his mid-20s. There were lots of familiar faces. Kids from the primary school came with their older siblings or parent. Inside the room that was lit, people periodically would go in to visit with the deceased's wife and others inside. I didn't go in, but as I left that night I saw from the window a closed silver casket covered in flowers. Later, the village minister came to lead the rosary. The minister in El Encino is the youngest one in the Irapuato Diocese. Only 20, and he's held this position for 2 years already. He seems to be very well respected, which I suppose you would have to be for the town to nominate you. He read some rezos from the catechism. I recognized some of the prayers to Mary from once when I was younger and went to mass with my grandmother and she led the rosary. The minister would lead one prayer, then everyone else would say another one together. Then they would switch who said what prayer. In between rezos, a woman inside the room would sing a short cántico and others would join in towards the end. This all went on for about 20 minutes. Sandra told me that the family and others who wish to will say the rosary every night for nine days for the deceased.

After the rosary, Sandra and I went back and drank atole. That's when we heard the men singing dirges. Evidently people from Comederito, La Estancia, Comedero, and Pañuelas had arrived. We listened for a while, then we decided to head back over. When we got there, Sandra told me to listen to the words the men were singing. They were verses from the Old Testament about sorrow and pain. I looked around. The women who had arrived were brewing coffee and passing it out in styrofoam cups along with roscas of bread. It's tradition for those who travel to the funeral to the velorio to bring food and drink. There isn't much time for the family to take care of such issues, especially when they live far from the city. After the men stopped singing, we headed back home and went to bed.

Then next morning, after teaching English in the Primary school, I walked over to the chapel for the funeral mass. It was packed. People who couldn't fit in the chapel stood on the pavement in front of the door or sat on rocks in the shade. Lots of school kids came during their lunch break, still in their uniforms, and didn't go back to class. The dress was a bit more casual than would be expected in the states. Some women wore dresses and some people wore slacks and dressy shirts, but a lot of people were wearing jeans. Very few wore t-shirts, though. The padre spoke about how life is only temporary, but those of us who are in the Church (I'm assuming Catholics) have hope of a new life. I found this interesting, because all the people I've talked to in the ranchos about religion (and they're all Catholic) have told me that, yes, they believe in their religion, but they believe that good people who are of other faiths or of no faith will go to Heaven, as well. It made me wonder if Catholic doctrine states that only Catholics go to Heaven. Maybe they believe others do as well, but they don't feel free to judge who else will in addition to themselves. I don't know, I haven't studied much about Catholicism, but there seemed to be some kind of popular belief, at least in these ranchos, that good faith and good works overrule different interpretations.

Between prayers and scriptures, we sang many hymns. I remember singing, "Hay que morir para vivir." It means, more or less, "one must die in order to live." I really liked this phrase. It was simple and comforting. It reinforced what the padre said about how death comes to us all. It is a necessary part of life. It is the portal between mortality and glory. Ok, that last one was kind of my own interpretation, but more or less, that is what he talked about. The only time everyone kneeled was when he was blessing the eucharist. I thought it was really interesting how even during a funeral mass, they make it a priority to partake of the Lord's Supper. Even thought I don't think the literal body of Christ is there, personally, I think it shows that following Jesus is a priority to them. Whether it is a normal mass, a funeral mass, a wedding mass, or a graduation mass, they will always partake of this sacrament that reminds them of Christ's sacrifice.

The minister read some scripture, as well. I wasn't really sure why he chose the story about Ahab killing Naboth for his vineyard, but he did. I guess it talks about death. I can't remember the story well enough to know if it talks about grieving for Naboth's death or how his righteousness was rewarded in the next life, but maybe it did.

After the mass, everyone piled on to a bus. There was hardly any standing room left. Several people with trucks drove truckfuls of people to the cemetery, too. The panteón was in Aldama. It took about half an hour to get there. Once we got there, we followed those carrying the casket to a spot between the walls where people were slid into their resting places. A woman led another rezo, and the minister helped, too. This went on for about 20 minutes. "Santo, santo, santo, es el Señor, Dios de los Ejércitos," was repeated more times than I can count. It means, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord, God of Hosts."

It seems to me that more time was spent worshipping during this funeral than the ones I've been to in the States. I find that significant. I wonder if maybe the mindset is that pleasing God with worship will encourage Him to send comfort and blessings. Or maybe it is comforting to praise God, believing that the deceased one is in His presence now. Maybe it is just as comforting to praise God, since He is the one that gave life to those who have died in the first place. Very likely, I have no idea. If you asked me why we do many traditional things in the United States, my response would simply be, "because it's tradition." I imagine I would get the same response here. BUT, once again, I could be wrong.

After the rezo, everyone was silent for a moment, and then, the lifted up the casket onto the scaffolding. The scaffolding rose up to a vacant square hole. The casket was slid inside, and 2 men began laying down mortar and cement blocks. As the first block was placed, I heard a girl cry out. It was the first sobbing I had heard either in the velorio or today. It was the girl I walk to school with in the morning. With each block, I could hear more people sobbing. I felt that it was my time to slide away outside the panteón, while those who really knew the man grieved. I sat with a little girl I teach at school and often play with, and we shared a soft drink until the bus came to take us back to El Encino. It was crowded again. I stood and talked to 2 girls my age who said they were his nieces. He was the tortilla winner for the family. Most of his kids were still in school, or had jobs that earned meager wages. They imagine that some of the sons will have to travel to the States next year. Be kind. You never know people's motivations for working in the States. Perhaps it will be a 17-year-old who doesn't know anyone, speak any English, and is only there because his father died and he needs to earn money for his mother and 12 siblings. I guarantee you, most people do not want to make that kind of journey.

"Quote: No [teacher] of [English] in [rural Mexico] is cagey, crafty [Señorita Schultheis]. Un-quote. Close paragraph."

Well, week five was a success. In addition to going to the telesecundaria in Santa Rosa twice a week to observe/teach English classes, I got to teach 3 times this week in the primaria in El Encino. The kids are great. A little shy, but that will change with time. They were really eager to learn English. So were the teachers, since they will have to teach it next year and know about as much as the kids. I felt my personality come out for the first time when I was teaching the 4-6 graders. I made jokes in Spanish. They made jokes back at me. They had excellent pronunciation. It wasn't hard to keep them engaged. I really like this age. I'm going to be going to the 1-3 grade classroom MWF from 12-1 and to the 4-6 grade classroom on MWF 9:30-10:30. That's plenty of time for me go to back and eat some fruit with Liset, one of the 6th graders, while preparing for my next class before 12. It's really great experience, too. This is what I want to do with adults some day. Here I am, in another country, where the teachers almost beg me to come teach. It wouldn't happen in the States. We have forms to fill out. Liabilities to worry about. Kids parents to sign forms. Consultations with teacher and principals. I understand why we have that in the States, but it also borders psychotic in comparison to the ease of the system in these ranchos. 2 completely different worlds. When I went back to the 1-3 grade class the 2nd time, I brought candy for anyone who could say their numbers 1-10 by memory. I had asked Karina in advance what kind to buy, and she told me fruit-flavored caramels. I did it outside the classroom, one at a time, that way nobody would be embarrassed if they messed up. Several of them did it no problem. More than half needed a little help. A couple clearly had no idea, but saw the piña fruit taffy and decided to give it a go. It was good. I got to know a lot of kids names and talk to them each for a bit. They waited for me by the gate after school and tried to get me to give them more candy. They were hilarious. I told them if they could count to 20 they could have more. Since they couldn't, I told them I'd just have to bring more candy next time for anyone who could. They didn't seem so sad.

I realize that teaching kids how to count in English when there is a tangible reward is much different from my goal of some day teaching immigrants English to help them in the supermarket, to find their way to a job interview, or to talk to a doctor when their child is sick. But, through my experiences teaching these kids the alphabet and how to say please and thank you, I am being reassured that I love what I am doing. I love teaching people to understand one another. I love that moment when a child who has been struggling to translate a phrase suddenly "gets it." You can see the lightbulb go off in their head, and you're so proud of them when they rattle off every possible use of this newly acquired vocabulary. The brain is a wonderful thing. Truly.

"I wouldn't bring up [socialized education] if I were you. It's poor salesmanship."

Ok, sorry for being a bit melodramatic in my last post. I just feel really strongly that our legislators should "think twice before [they] cut" on illegal immigration issues. You're not just getting a "pest" out of your country. You're putting a whole family at risk who is depending on them. And, there I go again. Someone stop me.

This week, we'll say the theme was education. I walked into the primary school in El Encino on Wednesday morning and asked if I could teach a bit of English each week. Both teachers are giving me 3 hours a week now. My host mom, who is the village kindergarten teacher, also wants me to come teach English this week. At first, I thought it was because all the kids keep asking me to come teach, and I still think that's part of it. BUT I found out this week that next year ALL primary and kindergarten teachers are going to be required to teach English, as well and the secondary school teachers. YIKES! Can you imagine being a teacher in the United States, not having ANY foreign language background and being told that if you want to keep your job, you're going to teach German next year?! I talked to the secondary school teacher who already has to teach English. He said that to graduate from college and be certified to teach, one only needs to specialize in Spanish, math, and one other subject. He also said that there are no teacher training workshops, so if teachers don't know much about a subject, they better study that government-issued textbook hard before teaching class. Terrifying. Remind me never to become a teacher in Mexico. I don't have the guts. One of the primary school teachers showed me some software that the government gave to all the primary school teachers to teach some basics in English. He said that a lot of primary schools don't use it, though, because it's not required and because the teachers don't know English. But these programs don't really teach the language. Just some vocab. Students could learn to point to things and say words, but they aren't learning to speak.

To be honest, the books I've seen that the government has issued to all secondary students are horrible. They're grammatically, syntactically, and semantically incorrect. Several errors a page. I read a sentence that said "You're going to have to work hard to get your purposes." It took me a minute to understand that they were trying to say "to achieve your goals." A lot of sentences are direct translations from Spanish, and it's just not how we say it in English. When asked if a student likes to do something, the book teaches students to say, "Yes, I like." Another problem that is quite frequent is the difference between "in" and "on." In Spanish, the word "en" covers both of these (think how difficult "por" and "para" are for Spanish learners since we use "for" for both of these in English). "In" and "on" are often used incorrectly. Also, I was reading one paragraph about endangered species. Evidently, there is a species of "beer" we should be working hard to protect. I'm going to assume that was supposed to be "bear." TONS more errors, but I don't have time. What baffles me is why the government wouldn't have a native speaker proofread the book. It wouldn't have been expensive or difficult. DO. NOT. COMPREHEND.

Also, I've decided I'm not a fan of socialized education. Yes, Mom and Dad, I might be pro-immigration, but you can sleep safely knowing that socialized education is not pleasing to me. A lot of the conversations in the book went as follows:

Teacher: What do you want to be when you grow up, Israel?

Israel: Well, my dad's a carpenter, and sometimes I help him in his shop. I don't want to study more. I want to become a carpenter, like my father.

Teacher: Well, that's a decent job, but you should really study to get a profession. Think about it.

Or this:

Alicia: After I graduate from secondary school, I'm going to high school.

Daniela: Me too! How about you, Sandra?

Sandra: I'm getting married.

Alicia and Daniela: Seriously?

Sandra: Yes, I've thought about it for a long time. I'm sure.

Daniela: Well, congratulations, but you shouldn't do it.

I'm just not a fan of indoctrinating statements in my children's textbooks, whether they're right or not. I'd rather my children learn to think for themselves, instead of having the government tell them how to think.

Something else we talked to the secondary school teacher about was the challenges of teaching in a rural community. He asked if I had seen October Sky. I actually had in my pre-calc class junior year of high school. It's about the struggles of a few determined students in a coal-mining community in the United States in the '50s or '60s. Ironically, I had compared American coal-mining communities to Mexican migrant-dominant communities in a paper I wrote last semester. The kids in October Sky were expected to graduate and spend the rest of their lives mining coal. 75% of the men in these ranchos have migrated to the US at least once. The secondary school teacher assumed that the community in October Sky was the American parallel to these ranchos. I disagree, since the setting of that movie was about half a century ago, and these kind of communities aren't common at all anymore in the United States, but he did say some interesting things. He mentioned that after it rains, a lot of times students will ask permission to go sow in the fields. They can't miss a certain number of days or they'll lose scholarships. He usually lets them go. It's how their family survives. He said a lot of the boys are the "jefes de la casa," or "bosses of the house." Personally, I think this is another reason socialized education doesn't work and why I'm a fan of how each state in the United States has it's own education standards. Mexico and the United States are both big countries. The people in the mountains have different needs than the people on the beach. They have varying cultures, issues, and histories. They need to teach different things. Education should be tailored to the people. Not people to education.

Ok, so in conclusion: Immigration = good. Socialized education = bad. Mexican people = awesome.

"Oh, [El Encino]'s just like any other rancho, only more so."

Wow. Mexico. So close to the United States, but couldn't be more different.

It was another week of building rapport amongst the villagers. I came across a few realizations along the way.

1. Life is different when you're the minority. I've never been the minority before in my life. I've never really been a foreigner before in my life. Once when I went to Greece and Italy for 2 weeks, but you don't get much of a cultural experience when you're busy being a tourist, shopping and looking at the world around you through a camera lens. Before I even open my mouth, everyone knows me as a güera. I already have a stereotype. Then when I do open my mouth, my accent adds to it, even if I'm speaking competently. It's not always a bad thing. It usually helps strike up interesting conversations, but it would certainly be different if I had cinnamon skin and a Mexican accent. I think, as humans, we don't like it when we don't understand something, so we make assumptions about other people. He's begging, so he's probably too lazy to find a job. She goes to a university so she must have worked hard to get there. They go to church every Sunday, so they must be a good family. We want to make sense of the world around us, so when someone looks different, we assume there is something different about their nature. We naturally stereotype people.

2. I had a really great conversation with a woman (we'll call her Maribel) for 2 hours. The most interesting part of the conversation came when we talked about illegal immigration. They live in the desert, but they majority of villagers depend on crops for survival. It's what their families have done for generations. They have homes that have existed for over 150 years. They know everyone in their town. It is their life. When the rains don't come, they can't just move. All they know to do is farm. They need money. They are experts at repairing their homes, sowing in the fields, picking crops, and herding animals. Their kind is a dying breed in the United States. They can get paid to do that there. If they go, their families won't starve. They can't wait a couple years for their papers to get in and be completely legal if they want to make sure their pregnant wife gives birth in a few months. They have to go. What struck me most was when Maribel said, "we aren't bad people." My heart melted. I know they aren't bad people. They welcome the gringos into their home. They feed us. They are eager to show us how to make goat cheese and sow in the fields. They ask us about our families and congratulate us when I tell them that my sister is engaged and ask about the wedding and how proud my parents must be. Their children come and greet me. They order a 20 gallon tank of water for me to keep in my room. They ARE good people. But they know that there is a stereotype in the United States against them. She told me about all her family members who are in the States right now and how she misses them. But there are no jobs in the ranchos. There are few more in the city which is an hour bus ride away. I think unemployment is worse here from what I've heard. My host mom, (we'll call her Salina), told me that her husband was out of work for 5 years, but always looking, and he was very qualified.

Now, I'm betting you're assuming Maribel's family members in the States immigrated illegally. You would be wrong. She told me how proud she was that they all had their papers. But, at the same time, she would be proud of them if they didn't have them. It's a dangerous voyage. I think most families would prefer it if they didn't have to go. But how couldn't they? How do you change the economy of an entire culture without irreparably changing the culture itself? You don't. It's impossible.

3. I went to Santa Rosa with my classmate (we'll call her Diana) on Wednesday. While we were waiting for another BYU student (we'll call him Carson) to arrive for our weekly group meeting, Diana, another student/our facilitator (we'll call him Max), and I were working on taking the paint off the roof of a casita so that they could add more cement on top to keep it from leaking during the "rainy" season. It was the middle of the day. Summer. The desert. Hot. We were banging on the roof with insufficient metal tools for a long time just to get a few square inches of paint chipped away. I got blisters. I laughed. I was an American in Mexico, doing the work that Mexicans stereotypically do in America. I pointed this out, and Max laughed and said he was thinking the same thing the day before. He said he understood now why so many Mexicans do this kind of work in the States. I did, too. They are good at it, because it's what they do at home. The difference is that in the States, we give them something better than a giant chisel or sickle to work with. No wonder Americans don't want to do this job. It's hard, especially if you don't have experience.

I suppose you could call this my rant on why I think we should respect our immigrants in the U.S. more. It probably won't be the last.

Mexico, I think this is the start of a beautiful amistad.

I've been in Mexico for a week, and already it feels weird to be on a computer or hold a cell phone in my hands. Living out in the ranchos where there is no service for internet or cell phones is certainly a different world. Being in the city on the weekends with these things feels unnatural. I don't like being on my computer like I used to. I would rather be talking to people face to face. That's how it is in the ranchos. Pure cara a cara contact. Everybody knows everybody. Everybody invites you in if you stop by their gate to talk for more than 30 seconds. It's strange to think that in the United States most people don't know their neighbors. It's something that's actually always bothered me about the United States. I guess it's because, in my opinion, you have to TRY to AVOID your neighbors to not get to know them. Why do we do that?

I have a place to stay! We gringos hunted around on Monday (Mother's Day in Mexico) in El Encino for a family that would let me and one of my classmates stay with them for 3 months. The first place was no dice, but the family we visited (we'll call them the Lalios) did invite us in for a couple hours and they fed us. I walk to their house every day to buy a bottle of water or 2, and yesterday they invited me in and showed me how they make the goat cheese that they sell. It's a family tradition. They sell it, along with some crops, from their house and in town in Irapuato. Sra. Lalio told me that all of her ancestors knew how to make it and so do her daughters. Very family oriented business. All over the ranchos in fact. It seems that very few ever leave. It seems that all the families are connected, which is not surprising since El Encino has somewhere around 300 residents whose ancestors have all lived there.

I found out a bit about the history of the ranchos the other day. My classmate (we'll call her, Compañera) and I walked to another rancho that is about 2 miles away called Comederito. We stopped by the primary school and I saw on the side a large painting of Emiliano Zapata holding a gun with a caption reading, "Es mejor morir a pie que vivir una vida a las rodillas." Something to the effect of it's better to die standing tall that to live being pushed around from my translation and what I know about the Mexican Revolution and Emiliano Zapata. I asked my host mom about it (we'll call her Salina), and she explained to me how Zapata had a huge influence on the ranchos of El Encino, La Estancia, and Comederito during the Revolution. All the residents worked to eat and sleep. They would raise 20 kilos of corn, give 15 to the dueños, and only be able to keep 5 for their family. They were forever in debt. The ideas and actions of Zapata greatly influenced these villagers to rise up against their lords. Salina told me that her great-grandfather was hung in town for his association with a secret rebel society. Lesson learned: if there's a man holding a gun on the side of an elementary school, ask about it. I'm ashamed to say that I had no idea that ranchos as tiny as these could have such a rich history.

There is an exciting even coming up! I'm going to be a madrina for a little girl's (we'll call her Elena) Presentación! Madrina means godmother, but I'm not THE godmother, it just means that I'm in charge of providing something for the festivities. I get to buy her esclavita (a special bracelet with her name and the date of La Presentación engraved on it). From what I know so far, when a Catholic child is 3 years old, there is a ceremony (La Presentación) where they child is brought forth in the Catholic Church and receives a special blessing. I'm assuming there's more to it than that, but I'll have to ask when I get back tomorrow. Elena's Presentación isn't for another fortnight, though, so you'll have to stay posted to hear how it goes. But, from what I know, every family in these 4 ranchos is Catholic, except for 1 Jehovah's witness. This reinforces a lot of the history that I've been reading on the relationship of the Catholic Church and rural areas of Latin America. I'm learning!

Of course, there is a TON more I could write here, but I must depart and go to a free concert in the Plaza Central, eat tostadas, and see Iron Man II with Spanish subtitles. ¡Hasta luego!