It started last year. My dear friend, Gaby, gathered a group of us mommies for breakfast at Marco Polo restaurant in Oaxaca's Reforma district. We met again yesterday and I just can't believe my good fortune to know these women and see how they view life in Mexico. There's Flor who is a businesswoman and into fashion; Tere who's smart and diplomatic, from Guadalajara but has to move wherever her husband gets a math professor gig; Liz who is hilarious and sharp, a revolutionary and an expert bargain-shopper at the market; and Gaby, my Oaxaquena chakra-cleanser and buddy.
We gossiped and complained and joked and interrupted each other. After awhile, my brain was snapping with all the Spanish slang and double meanings. But I think I maintained at about 80 percent comprehension. We were there for four hours and I have rarely felt so at ease with a group of people who I'd only known for a year, mostly having crossed paths at school drop-off and pick-up.
I told Steve that it's such an honor to be included in their company. That's the thing about being what they call "a foreigner"--I always feel a little bit onstage, that my words and actions represent a whole culture of a place (a place with which I have a difficult relationship, to say the least). And that what I do has to counteract years of bad politics, racism, and stereotyping on the part of the United States.
But there, at the table, it was simpler than that. We could just laugh at things and even at ourselves. I hope I'm not the only one wishing that there will be a third annual breakfast club, too.
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