Love thy... legal neighbor?
He pulled up on that worn, red bicycle - his prized and only means of transportation - next to the window of our comfortable, air-conditioned vehicle one summer morning. His name was Alejandro, a newcomer to Hispanic mission Pan de Vida, and he made his home amidst the Latino-dominated barrios of Chandler. Excitedly he told us of the new job he had found, mowing lawns and trimming trees as a day laborer. My mind wandered to the Latino laborers who came every Tuesday to our neighborhood, mowing our lawns and trimming our trees, working for incredibly low wages and long hours. The light in his eyes was bright, animated, although it dimmed slightly at the mention of the wife and baby he left three years ago. He told us of the equipment he meant to buy for a family bakery in southern Mexico, when he returned to home and family in two years or so more. 2 years, that's all. He rode away at last, after the proclamation of his hopeful scheme, his legal status doubtful, as every one of us in the van knew that there was no legal Visa even existent for his type of work.
I was torn.
This whole idea of immigration - particularly illegal immigration - has troubled, fascinated, and - more than anything - saddened me the longer I live here again in the States. I am puzzled at how intricate, how complex the issue has been made... when the solution, to me in theory, is so simple.
And yet, in our world today, I doubt that it really is.
If I take the issue as an 'idea' (which is all the normal American knows about it anyway) - I consider it all an outrage. I think I was born a conservative Republican - from the time I could talk, it seems, I have had a firm grasp on what I consider right and what I consider wrong.
And this whole idea of thousands invading our border, wilfully and illegally, is most definitely wrong. Four years ago, though, I got to see the other side - in both the physical and ideal sense of the word - and I think, now, I understand. That's why I jumped on the opportunity to thoroughly research the whole issue - inside and out - last semester in English 102 at Chandler-Gilbert.
Allow me, for a moment, to share a few facts, a few thoughts, and a parting idea with you.
For a moment - just one - try to forget prejudice, any deep-rooted preconceptions of the idea (for all your protests otherwise, I promise you have a few!) , and perhaps you'll see more clearly once I'm through. More than anything, I pray that you might remember, as a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, the call that we have as Christians to love and serve all. This is not a suggestion, not a guideline... this is a command.
As early as the 1830's, the regulation of immigration went almost unchecked as thousands of immigrants barraged the eastern border for entrance to America (our ancestors, by the way!) The Irish, for example, came in hordes during the Great Potato Famine of the 1840's, eager for work, shelter, and most of all, food. During this time, the regulation of immigration was under the control of individual states, a situation that continued until 1875 when Congress ultimately took control. As the century progressed into the 1880's, racism took control of the influx of immigrants, and many Asians and Eastern Europeans were consequently barred from entry. However, the end of World War II opened the doors to immigration, and on into the 1990's record numbers of immigrants are documented, and the immigrant population of Hispanics from Mexico and South America began to grow by huge numbers. And it was then Congress began to take action, albeit cautiously. And in 1996, the unclear, long-ignored subject of immigration was finally raised, and the chronically gray area of immigration policy became more visibly defined with the passing of the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act (AEDPA), and even more especially the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigration Responsibility ACt (IIRIRA). Unfortunately, these new policies only increased the complexities of this body of law when it came to their implementation.
And so we reach today, the millennium attained, the year 2006. Immigration numbers have never been greater - an estimated 1.1 million immigrants will enter the U.S. this year. According to a study conducted by the Pew Hispanic Center, our state of Arizona has a population of 500,000 undocumented immigrants. While I understand that the mass illegal immigration is wrong and should be abolished, may I suggest a second side to the issue. I believe that today's immigration system needs a complete reform - a system whereby workers here might obtain their legal work visa, and immigrants entering the country might do so legally.
For those who have read "There and Back Again", may I remind you of my Saturday mornings at the San Luis mission - an experience which has permanently changed my view and perspective on life as it should be. Squatters a few years hence had built shacks of aluminum and cardboard - other more permanent residences consisted of worn adobe and dirt floors. Here, in the dust and squalor, is where dreams of a new life start. Four hours from the border, a trek on foot would be nothing compared to the journeys some make to the United States. And this is why the majority of the 1.1 million influx of immigrants per annum come from Mexico and countries similar, making this pilgrimage every year. Dreaming of new lives and better conditions for their children, they will do whatever (and I really mean the word) to get across that border. (Sounds familiar... remember our ancestors - the ones we hail as heroes of freedom and democracy?) Their need is real, their plight genuine. And entirely overlooked. According to an interview I conducted with an expert on the subject, 'if the [immigrant] is trying to better his life through immigration and working in positions of manual labor and landscaping... there is no process wherein he can receive a valid Visa to remain here.'
Get that. So pretty much any Latino you see doing any kind of unskilled labor - construction, landscaping, lawn maintenance, etc. - is - without doubt - illegal. Imagine one day - one day - without them.
Oh yes, I know what you all are thinking. That's all well and good... but why does that mean we should accept them? Why do we have to carry their weight? After all, they are able to obtain free medical service in our own emergency rooms. Why should we have to support them?
Fact is - the true fact is - we don't.
We never have.
Men and women with Alejandro's purpose and determination, with their dreams and hopes, contribute hugely to the American economy. We don't support them... not really. Think of where they work. Think of what they do! East Valley Bible Church has a ministry to a small church in Queen Creek, feeding migrant workers who work literally day and night in the orchards of Queen Creek and Gilbert. Never have I seen men more physically tired - "time off" is an unknown term to them - their work ethic exceeds anything even I could imagine. Who else would do these menial, seemingly worthless jobs but for them? Few Americans would work for the insignificant income it affords those who do, and few of us (and I really mean few!) know how important they really are. They landscape and build in the spring and summer, harvest our orchards in the fall, work as day laborers in the winter. They are the backbone of our daily life - but do we even notice it? According to that aforementioned interview, they provide 'a tremendous amount of low income labor that helps to keep the price of produce and construction low. They do a tremendous amount of work with very little compensation.'
According to discussions I have conducted with Jose Manuel Hernandez, the pastor of Pan de Vida, and Mike Paasch, World Ministries pastor at East Valley, obtaining Visas for such unskilled labor is virtually impossible. The system is both impersonal and too personal, it disregards individual situations, and yet all power to bestow said Visa is in the hands of whoever happens to interview you. The records kept are not sufficient - this same Jose Manuel Hernandez recently struggled with an identity conflict keeping him in Mexico for nearly 5 weeks, for lack of proper information about him - he who had crossed the border completely legally since 1983 and kept completely above board with his Visa situation. His fingerprints - eventually proving his innocence - were lost twice in transit from Nogales, Sonora to Washington D.C. for analysis. Visitors visas can be nigh on impossible to obtain - let alone a worker Visa. Months, maybe years, and a minimum of 2000 dollars later, you can have a worker Visa, for a skilled labored position. Maybe. And yet the number of illegal immigrants into the States shocks and outrages us - we should rather ask ourselves what could possibly be more likely! But the media chooses to portray all immigrants as criminals, law-haters - we are told 'illegal aliens are not doing work Americans won't do' (direct quote!!) - but do we see any great number of Anglo Americans doing the base unskilled labor employing these aliens? The vast majority of America's aliens have come to work, and work hard.
Some would say that illegal aliens make very little difference in the American economy, or some would even imply that they take more than they supply. They are criminals, looking to ruin and tear down the American economy, robbing Americans of work, funds, and sheer space. I fully respect the opinions and fears of these people, who fear for the legal residents of this country. I can and do sympathize, for I was there, too. Give me leave, as well, to set these fears at rest - 'there is a tremendous pull to the United States', as companies and organizations solicit their help in agriculture, construction, and other jobs of this kind. The very difficulty and impersonality of the U.S. border system keeps them from the dignity of legal status. And as for their role in the American economy, it is unquestionable. 'There is a fairly large pool of unskilled labor soliciting their help'. The temptation to come illegally, since there is no process or program to provide them coverage, is therefore huge. And point blank, Americans, employed or otherwise, are not providing the labor necessary in these professions. So they come.
And so we are blessed - more than we can ever know, living in and protected by a government founded and built up in democratic freedom, both political and economic. We are blessed beyond measure, stomachs filled, closets brimmings, possessors of things unimaginable - here in this grand, beautiful, free country, the United States of America. Think about it - we spend every day, every night in America - free to speak what we think, to see and hear what we want, to do and worship as we please. Who wouldn't want this kind of freedom? Yet we here we are, building walls, building vigilante border patrol, building processes and border systems virtually impassible - keeping out those who want what we have, merely because we have given them no way to obtain the visas they need to enter legally. Has our maximum occupancy been attained?
Finally, friends, as believers, we have a much higher calling than we do as citizens of the United States of America. Even this wonderful country we call our home for a few passing years is not where we belong. We are citizens of the kingdom above - a reign that will never end. Why then, is these immigrants' illegality such an insuperable barrier? It is wrong - yes. And yet even those who speak out strongest against these people's sin toward the government break the same laws they supposedly support by speeding on their way home from work. Let us examine ourselves! Don't get me wrong - I want nothing more than the laws of the land and of God to be fully upheld. Let us, though, love our neighbor - yes, even the illegal neighbor. For neighbors they are.
'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.' Matthew 25:34 - 36
I, as a firm Bible-believing Christian, however, thoroughly recognize that we are told (Romans 13:1-7) quite plainly to submit to the governing authorities. This is our duty. And this I believe. However, many Hispanics don't see the American government as their authority (wrong though it may be). It is the primary view of the Hispanic culture - and it is biblical as well - that each father has a duty to supply for their family's needs (1 Timothy 5:8) . A twelve-hour work day in Mexico, doing the exact same work they do here, brings in a total income of (maybe) 10 dollars a day. Nothing - nothing to support a family. And that's if they can find work! To add to their despair, grocery prices are shocking - I remember paying 4 dollars for a mere gallon of milk. They don't come for just any reason - they come because they have nowhere else to go.
So why, I ask myself, do we look down on them, frown on their sin and berate them to such an ungodly degree? Are we not also to blame? Do we not have a rather large plank in our own eyes as well? It is these few remaining days that we have here on earth that can make a difference in the kingdom of God. These immigrants are the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the unclothed, the sick, the imprisoned... and we, as believers in the Lord Jesus Christ, have a far greater calling to them than to citizenship in the United States of America. And think of this - we have an opportunity to reach out to peoples we would never encounter otherwise! Romans 17:26 says 'From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him...' He - in his infinite sovereignty - has brought them to us! Let us hope, by their arrival, that they might come to know Him. Perhaps we are not lawmakers or legislators that can make a dramatic difference in this area of immigration reform. However, let us love, yes, both our legal and illegal neighbor, for this command, friends, is the second of the two greatest laws we have been given, and it is our duty to put these - and no others - first.
Let us love.
(I have not included a bibliography of my sources... I can do so if anyone should deem it necessary.)
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
There and Back Again
A tale of two cultures, 10 different cities, 15 different locations within those cities, and 1 very strange young girl.
There were about six of us gathered together on Sunday night, at the Paasch place, as usual. Almost every Sunday after the 6 o'clock service at East Valley we (a very fluctuating, colorful 'we' that is not very clearly defined) get together and eat, talk, talk some more, eat, watch a movie every now and then... and generally "make merry" in a Christian sort of way. :) Well, it was one of these Sunday nights when, around a pot of Starbucks Sumatra, the topic of conversation turned toward character types. Turns out about oh, 7 years or so ago my parents learned this code for different personalities (one of many) - the DISC code. It works this way. "D" stands for determined, "I" for influential, "S" for steady, and "C" for conscientious. If someone's a little tricky, then they get a combination. My dad's an IS. My mom's a DDDDDDIIIII (I made up that variation - anyone who knows my mom will agree with me!). My sister's plain "I". Me, well... I'm, just...
I'm just...
different.
My mom - my MOM - whose skills in the art of pinning anyone's characteristics, be they physical, emotional, spiritual, you-name-it are positively psychic - has yet to pin me down. I've been trying to figure it out myself... and decided that the explanation couldn't be restricted to acronyms and I'd have to write a blog.
Which is great. I love to write.
Let me give you an idea of where it all began. If I were to be entirely thorough, I would probably use up more computer space than I'm at present willing to part with, so I'll [attempt to] be brief. :) (Brief for me, however, is something entirely than different than "brief" for the rest of the world.) My life began right here in Scottsdale, Arizona, some years back. (We won't specify how many presently!) My life was very, very... normal for the first six years - we had a lovely little home in Mesa, complete with large backyard, full-grown trees, and white shutters... knowing my mom (then!), we would have had the picket fence too, if the HoA would have permitted it. Then, soon before my seventh birthday, my life changed forever.
Yeah, I actually have one of those stories.
My parents went on a harmless little mission trip to Matamoros, Tamaulipas on the border of Texas that summer... and came back missionaries. Needless to say, I was shocked, irate, and very, very scared. I had read about these "missionaries" before. Weren't they all eaten by cannibals, or imprisoned for years on end with little food and no bathroom? Talk about gross! Weren't they the types that sold everything they owned and lived in the bush and who all either died of some kind of fever or were tortured to death by foreign savages?
That didn't sound like much fun.
And I swore I would never, ever go. That nothing - nothing - in the world would make me.
Fortunately, my parents took little consideration of that opinion (and fortunately, I was all talk!), and as soon as humanly possible, we were on the road to Texas. We were on the road a lot after that. We lived in Texas for seven months - and almost everywhere else you can imagine (as long as your imagination stays somewhere in North America). There was language school in Baja California, missionary training school in North Carolina, a year on the border of Nogales, numerous transitional apartments, and finally, three years in the capitol of Sonora, Hermosillo. We traveled through most of the eastern and central and midwestern United States, a good 11 states in my second home country (Mexico), and a few Canadian provinces here and there. All this change, all this moving - just what I had dreaded most.
God certainly has a sense of humor. And He chose to exercise His sovereignty in my life in many (and, to me, very mysterious!) ways.
About the time we reached Hermosillo I had had just about enough. Yes, I had experienced far more than the average kid my age, had been on more incredible adventures than many adults could boast. Throughout its entirety I was learning... my mother was quite determined that my sister and I would have a complete, thorough education - and despite the odds, we did! I learned my multiplication tables driving through Virginia; I counted to a thousand for the first time on one particularly long trek from Carolina to Jersey. I had memorized my prepositions in a small trailer home in Ensenada, written my first poems in a small drafty ranch house on the border's very brink in Nogales, Arizona. But I was ready to be done. Still mourning the loss of my last abode (I cried over every house I left but one), the idea of "settling down" to me seemed the most beautiful thing in the world.
But... God had something different in mind for me.
It had been a long fourteen hour drive, an all day ordeal, but finally the great town of Hermosillo, Sonora loomed in front of us, all lights and traffic and endless streets. It wasn't a new sight - we had visited before, but everything seemed dim and surreal, unable to fully register its reality in my mottled brain. Could this be happening to me - again? When my parents had decided to move to Mexico as missionaries, I thought they were crazy and had vowed I would never go. And yet, somehow, life was beginning again for me - in a new life, an entirely new world. Shortly after arriving, once the first excitment of our new surroundings had worn off, we began to realize how incredibly different we were, culturally, from the Mexicans around us. We had heard of culture shock, and laughed - now, we got to have our own up close and personal experience with it. Our first taste of this new culture came with our first Mexican fiesta. Our neighbors closed our street off entirely to make room for their little girls's 1st birthday party. Shocked, we shortly began t realize that such a procedure really was necessary in this case, considering the fact that most, if not the entire neighborhood was invited to the celebration (and most of the next!!!), and we were even more taken aback to find that they would stay at the fiesta until about 1 or 2 in the morning, regardless of the events of the next day. Never in my life had I seen seen such a grand affair - certainly not next door and even more certainly not to celebrate merely the passing of a child's very first year in the world. I tried my first bit of Mexican candy that night, too - being the master of drama that I was (and am), I immediately began to dry-heave the stuff up, handed the rest to my sister, and swore I'd never try it again.
What a revolting place, I thought. They make up their own rules without so much as an if-you-please, stay up and play loud mariachi music until all hours of the night, and this candy... why would you ever, EVER put chile and sugar together? I don't think that God ever intended any such disastrous combination.
I don't know if I can do this.
It's funny how nearly anything can grow on you if you just give it time.
(I can eat chile by the pound now... and yes, even with sugar.)
Shortly after moving in, finding a church became our primary object - and, for some reason, none seemed fitting. Everyone was either falling all over the ground and speaking something that didn't sound much like Spanish - or stoic and legalistic and rather altogether frightening. Finally, we found it - Maranatha, it was called, and it seemed to be MADE for us. But the necessity of learning Spanish soon became acutely obvious. My sister and I were sent to school, and quickly became quite "popular". Not, of course, because of anything either of us said or did (because we obviously couldn't), but, being 'la Americana', 'la gringa', I was instantly accepted, for what could be more of a novelty than a little white girl with light skin and blue eyes?
About the time I started sixth grade, the focus of our history class turned to the Texas revolution in class. Now, for those of you who didn't know, this subject is one that is still rather tender in the hearts of the Mexicans, and many are still quite bitter about the whole idea of Texas and the Southwest being taken from them. I soon found, much to my own personal chagrin, that the subject considered a huge victory against the cruel hearted Mexicans in America was regarded in a quite different light in Mexico. As we were told of the wrongs done to fellow countrymen by the heartless Americans - how their land was stolen from them (told with all the patriotic candor of a true hearted Mexican!), I began to sink lower and lower in my seat, my face hidden by the offending history book, hoping against hope that no one would associate me with those cold blooded Americans told of in THIS account of the Mexican American War. Thankfully, the connection was not made, at least verbally, and I began to see a different side to the biased version of history I had always known.
That first summer in Hermosillo I learned a few things. Every Saturday morning, bright and early, we would drive through the breadth of the grand capitol of Sonora, past la Zona Hotelera (the hotel zone), the gigantic, ominous homes of the few opulent in colonia Pitic and La Jolla, past our home church ‘Maranatha’ - past la Fiesta Americana, the largest and most precocious hotel in the city’s perimeter. Just outside of the city - a mile or so further - lay the barrios of San Luis Combate. Some years back this land had been overrun by squatters - those homeless with nowhere else to go, and here they remained. Here they made their living, constructing a life and a home with whatever they could find: carton (cardboard), corrugated tin... anything. And here, every Saturday morning, the San Luis children's mission was held. About fifty smiling, bare-footed children would congregate under that tree, rain or shine, all of those who weren't already hard at work - and enough stray dogs for each of them. Three years or so before our arrival they had come - no one had claimed the open land, and, without other hopes or prospects, they had settled here and built a life and home on what little they could - carton (cardboard), corrugated aluminum, anything to keep a roof over their heads. Never have I met a more kind and welcoming people - who offered generously out of their nothing and came faithfully to hear the word of God preached. Needless to say, I was every week shamed in my egotistic materialism, and, even without realizing it, I was gaining new perspective on life.
I became quite a different person those few years in Hermosillo. I learned to understand and even appreciate the many cultural differences, to see beyond myself and my own very limited way of thinking. I realized - and it was a colossal realization - that my citizenship was not here on earth, that my identity couldn't be found in one particular country or place, persay - no, I was a citizen of heaven. Here were people who loved the same Lord and worshipped him with the same faith ... although, perhaps, their faith and worship may have looked a little different. ;)
Three years later, the day came when we were to leave Hermosillo and move back to the States. I had no time to think about trifles of that sort however... my Hispanic band was playing at church that morning, and, before I left, I had to see this last performance through. Upon my early arrival at the church, I was told, with typical Mexican timing, that I was to make a speech that morning to open the band's presentation. Even though I had no time to plan or prepare for anything of the sort, I quickly wrote out (with a little help from our faithful band director) an address to the audience, and took a few precious moments to make sure I had all the songs by heart. As I stepped onto the stage, I looked out across the audience, my heart beating with all its eleven year old might, trying to get my bearings. I took a deep breath and delivered the important little speech, introducing our songs and the band, and, as I finished, the music began to play. Our last act went off without a hitch, a roar of applause succeeding our exit from the stage. And as the service ended and we drove out of town, I knew I would never, ever forget Hermosillo: my second home. The culture, the people, the life that I lived in Mexico has become a part of me, it has shaped who I am and the direction I'm headed now - I would never trade those few years for a life of leisure anywhere else. Without His divine intervention, I never would I have left a life where I was, once, content.
And gaining a new one.
So, I've been 'There'...
...Now what?
There were about six of us gathered together on Sunday night, at the Paasch place, as usual. Almost every Sunday after the 6 o'clock service at East Valley we (a very fluctuating, colorful 'we' that is not very clearly defined) get together and eat, talk, talk some more, eat, watch a movie every now and then... and generally "make merry" in a Christian sort of way. :) Well, it was one of these Sunday nights when, around a pot of Starbucks Sumatra, the topic of conversation turned toward character types. Turns out about oh, 7 years or so ago my parents learned this code for different personalities (one of many) - the DISC code. It works this way. "D" stands for determined, "I" for influential, "S" for steady, and "C" for conscientious. If someone's a little tricky, then they get a combination. My dad's an IS. My mom's a DDDDDDIIIII (I made up that variation - anyone who knows my mom will agree with me!). My sister's plain "I". Me, well... I'm, just...
I'm just...
different.
My mom - my MOM - whose skills in the art of pinning anyone's characteristics, be they physical, emotional, spiritual, you-name-it are positively psychic - has yet to pin me down. I've been trying to figure it out myself... and decided that the explanation couldn't be restricted to acronyms and I'd have to write a blog.
Which is great. I love to write.
Let me give you an idea of where it all began. If I were to be entirely thorough, I would probably use up more computer space than I'm at present willing to part with, so I'll [attempt to] be brief. :) (Brief for me, however, is something entirely than different than "brief" for the rest of the world.) My life began right here in Scottsdale, Arizona, some years back. (We won't specify how many presently!) My life was very, very... normal for the first six years - we had a lovely little home in Mesa, complete with large backyard, full-grown trees, and white shutters... knowing my mom (then!), we would have had the picket fence too, if the HoA would have permitted it. Then, soon before my seventh birthday, my life changed forever.
Yeah, I actually have one of those stories.
My parents went on a harmless little mission trip to Matamoros, Tamaulipas on the border of Texas that summer... and came back missionaries. Needless to say, I was shocked, irate, and very, very scared. I had read about these "missionaries" before. Weren't they all eaten by cannibals, or imprisoned for years on end with little food and no bathroom? Talk about gross! Weren't they the types that sold everything they owned and lived in the bush and who all either died of some kind of fever or were tortured to death by foreign savages?
That didn't sound like much fun.
And I swore I would never, ever go. That nothing - nothing - in the world would make me.
Fortunately, my parents took little consideration of that opinion (and fortunately, I was all talk!), and as soon as humanly possible, we were on the road to Texas. We were on the road a lot after that. We lived in Texas for seven months - and almost everywhere else you can imagine (as long as your imagination stays somewhere in North America). There was language school in Baja California, missionary training school in North Carolina, a year on the border of Nogales, numerous transitional apartments, and finally, three years in the capitol of Sonora, Hermosillo. We traveled through most of the eastern and central and midwestern United States, a good 11 states in my second home country (Mexico), and a few Canadian provinces here and there. All this change, all this moving - just what I had dreaded most.
God certainly has a sense of humor. And He chose to exercise His sovereignty in my life in many (and, to me, very mysterious!) ways.
About the time we reached Hermosillo I had had just about enough. Yes, I had experienced far more than the average kid my age, had been on more incredible adventures than many adults could boast. Throughout its entirety I was learning... my mother was quite determined that my sister and I would have a complete, thorough education - and despite the odds, we did! I learned my multiplication tables driving through Virginia; I counted to a thousand for the first time on one particularly long trek from Carolina to Jersey. I had memorized my prepositions in a small trailer home in Ensenada, written my first poems in a small drafty ranch house on the border's very brink in Nogales, Arizona. But I was ready to be done. Still mourning the loss of my last abode (I cried over every house I left but one), the idea of "settling down" to me seemed the most beautiful thing in the world.
But... God had something different in mind for me.
It had been a long fourteen hour drive, an all day ordeal, but finally the great town of Hermosillo, Sonora loomed in front of us, all lights and traffic and endless streets. It wasn't a new sight - we had visited before, but everything seemed dim and surreal, unable to fully register its reality in my mottled brain. Could this be happening to me - again? When my parents had decided to move to Mexico as missionaries, I thought they were crazy and had vowed I would never go. And yet, somehow, life was beginning again for me - in a new life, an entirely new world. Shortly after arriving, once the first excitment of our new surroundings had worn off, we began to realize how incredibly different we were, culturally, from the Mexicans around us. We had heard of culture shock, and laughed - now, we got to have our own up close and personal experience with it. Our first taste of this new culture came with our first Mexican fiesta. Our neighbors closed our street off entirely to make room for their little girls's 1st birthday party. Shocked, we shortly began t realize that such a procedure really was necessary in this case, considering the fact that most, if not the entire neighborhood was invited to the celebration (and most of the next!!!), and we were even more taken aback to find that they would stay at the fiesta until about 1 or 2 in the morning, regardless of the events of the next day. Never in my life had I seen seen such a grand affair - certainly not next door and even more certainly not to celebrate merely the passing of a child's very first year in the world. I tried my first bit of Mexican candy that night, too - being the master of drama that I was (and am), I immediately began to dry-heave the stuff up, handed the rest to my sister, and swore I'd never try it again.
What a revolting place, I thought. They make up their own rules without so much as an if-you-please, stay up and play loud mariachi music until all hours of the night, and this candy... why would you ever, EVER put chile and sugar together? I don't think that God ever intended any such disastrous combination.
I don't know if I can do this.
It's funny how nearly anything can grow on you if you just give it time.
(I can eat chile by the pound now... and yes, even with sugar.)
Shortly after moving in, finding a church became our primary object - and, for some reason, none seemed fitting. Everyone was either falling all over the ground and speaking something that didn't sound much like Spanish - or stoic and legalistic and rather altogether frightening. Finally, we found it - Maranatha, it was called, and it seemed to be MADE for us. But the necessity of learning Spanish soon became acutely obvious. My sister and I were sent to school, and quickly became quite "popular". Not, of course, because of anything either of us said or did (because we obviously couldn't), but, being 'la Americana', 'la gringa', I was instantly accepted, for what could be more of a novelty than a little white girl with light skin and blue eyes?
About the time I started sixth grade, the focus of our history class turned to the Texas revolution in class. Now, for those of you who didn't know, this subject is one that is still rather tender in the hearts of the Mexicans, and many are still quite bitter about the whole idea of Texas and the Southwest being taken from them. I soon found, much to my own personal chagrin, that the subject considered a huge victory against the cruel hearted Mexicans in America was regarded in a quite different light in Mexico. As we were told of the wrongs done to fellow countrymen by the heartless Americans - how their land was stolen from them (told with all the patriotic candor of a true hearted Mexican!), I began to sink lower and lower in my seat, my face hidden by the offending history book, hoping against hope that no one would associate me with those cold blooded Americans told of in THIS account of the Mexican American War. Thankfully, the connection was not made, at least verbally, and I began to see a different side to the biased version of history I had always known.
That first summer in Hermosillo I learned a few things. Every Saturday morning, bright and early, we would drive through the breadth of the grand capitol of Sonora, past la Zona Hotelera (the hotel zone), the gigantic, ominous homes of the few opulent in colonia Pitic and La Jolla, past our home church ‘Maranatha’ - past la Fiesta Americana, the largest and most precocious hotel in the city’s perimeter. Just outside of the city - a mile or so further - lay the barrios of San Luis Combate. Some years back this land had been overrun by squatters - those homeless with nowhere else to go, and here they remained. Here they made their living, constructing a life and a home with whatever they could find: carton (cardboard), corrugated tin... anything. And here, every Saturday morning, the San Luis children's mission was held. About fifty smiling, bare-footed children would congregate under that tree, rain or shine, all of those who weren't already hard at work - and enough stray dogs for each of them. Three years or so before our arrival they had come - no one had claimed the open land, and, without other hopes or prospects, they had settled here and built a life and home on what little they could - carton (cardboard), corrugated aluminum, anything to keep a roof over their heads. Never have I met a more kind and welcoming people - who offered generously out of their nothing and came faithfully to hear the word of God preached. Needless to say, I was every week shamed in my egotistic materialism, and, even without realizing it, I was gaining new perspective on life.
I became quite a different person those few years in Hermosillo. I learned to understand and even appreciate the many cultural differences, to see beyond myself and my own very limited way of thinking. I realized - and it was a colossal realization - that my citizenship was not here on earth, that my identity couldn't be found in one particular country or place, persay - no, I was a citizen of heaven. Here were people who loved the same Lord and worshipped him with the same faith ... although, perhaps, their faith and worship may have looked a little different. ;)
Three years later, the day came when we were to leave Hermosillo and move back to the States. I had no time to think about trifles of that sort however... my Hispanic band was playing at church that morning, and, before I left, I had to see this last performance through. Upon my early arrival at the church, I was told, with typical Mexican timing, that I was to make a speech that morning to open the band's presentation. Even though I had no time to plan or prepare for anything of the sort, I quickly wrote out (with a little help from our faithful band director) an address to the audience, and took a few precious moments to make sure I had all the songs by heart. As I stepped onto the stage, I looked out across the audience, my heart beating with all its eleven year old might, trying to get my bearings. I took a deep breath and delivered the important little speech, introducing our songs and the band, and, as I finished, the music began to play. Our last act went off without a hitch, a roar of applause succeeding our exit from the stage. And as the service ended and we drove out of town, I knew I would never, ever forget Hermosillo: my second home. The culture, the people, the life that I lived in Mexico has become a part of me, it has shaped who I am and the direction I'm headed now - I would never trade those few years for a life of leisure anywhere else. Without His divine intervention, I never would I have left a life where I was, once, content.
And gaining a new one.
So, I've been 'There'...
...Now what?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
