Have You Seen the Dog Lately?

My Favorite Oaxaca Beach Secrets Revealed!

2012-01-28T12:57:00.000-08:00

How silly to keep favorite places a secret, as if sharing the information will cause crowds to descend. The fact is, my favorite beach area in Oaxaca would not appeal to resort-lovers, non-swimmers, people who won't at least try to speak Spanish, and those seeking the luxe experience. I like my beach with a palapa hut, fresh mariscos, hammocks in the shade, and waves to jump, and not much more.

The journey to my jewel of a beach San Agustinillo starts in Oaxaca city. About 3 hours into the drive, you're in the mountains, freezing your patootie off, and thinking that it's pure madness that you will be in tropical heat within the next couple hours. Relish that mountain air, because the drive is about to get barfy.

Before hitting the mountain curves, I go to the "it" spot in San Jose del Pacifico, La Taberna de Los Duendes. Duendes are Latin America's evil folkloric creatures and this is their tavern, featuring mushroom murals painted all 'round, a nod to the rainy "high" season in which people partake in the local psychedelic delicacy. In dry season, it's all about homemade cheeses, onion and tomato jams, pastas tossed in homemade sauces, and hookah pipes you rent by the hour. I bought miniature knitted mushrooms from the back wall gift shop/gallery and played a game of chess while eating pasta with olives, capers, rosemary, basil, and toasted nuts.

A couple hours later, you either dodge the rope pulled across the road by the local village woman or you donate to whatever cause she represents, and you know you're within spitting distance of Pochutla. Pochutla is the urban hub of the beach towns of Puerto Angel, Zipolite, San Agustinillo, Mazunte, and La Ventanilla. Or you can take a sharp turn to go to Puerto Escondido. Somewhere there is a different sharp turn to get to Huatulco.

I love Pochutla. You drive through a narrow, winding street that goes by cheap pharmacies, people selling coconuts roadside, and baskets of baked goods. This is the place to stop to stock up on cheap stuff, or to send someone in the car on a two-minute shopping spree as you circle the block. For the best deal on high SPF sunblock (which can be pricey in Mexico), go to Dr. Simi, my favorite generic drugs and toiletries pharmacy chain.

The wind through Puerto Angel is a tease, because water views keep alluding you. I recommend a stop or side trip to Playa Panteon, particularly if you have younger children who want a dip into mellow waters. Park at Cordelia's hotel, order a drink to rent your table space, and set the kids on soak. If the conditions are right, the stronger swimmers can do the 10-minute swim to the hidden caves and tidepools on a sand bar to the right of Cordelias.

Onto San Augstinillo. You pass Zipolite, the nude beach and home of a yoga retreat or two, on route, worth telling people about even if you don't wind up going. Then it's San Agustinillo, a place dear to me.

We find no reason to stay anywhere other than Bambu, a collection of eco-cabanas with palapa roofs. I love this place dearly, and the laid-back managers, Memo and Miguel, create just the right beachy vibe. They mean eco, too--they recycle, compost, use natural materials for much of their building, have gray water and black water recycling, and integrate their tiny development into the beach so smoothly and beautifully.

There is an outdoor communal kitchen which means you spend leisurely mornings making coffee and breakfast while wandering into the water, sitting on beach chairs or reading and swinging in the hammock. It's easy because the beach is right there, mere steps from the kitchen, and the pretty serious surf creates a beautiful cacophony.

I typically require at least an hour to get the rhythm of the surf here, and to manage the riptide when necessary. But I like a challenge.

Here, then, are some secrets I have unearthed regarding my beautiful beach town, after several visits.

--Mexico Lindo's pizza is far better than that at La Termita, the Italian-owned restaurant and B&B. This was not always the case but, according to local sources, La Termita has downgraded their cheese and it's no longer the beautiful pizza I raved about to friends and strangers alike. By the way, I have not witnessed any restaurant firing up the brick oven before 6:30pm.

--Past the second sand bar from the Bambu part of San Agustinillo, near Mexico Lindo, is a beach spot my friends call "The Secret Kids Club." I'm sorry to reveal the secret here: a soft-sand tiny pool fed by the tide, appropriate for toddlers and kids. Up the rocks, a sandy passage for creating temporary art with shells and pebbles. Underneath, an archway providing a peek of stunning blue ocean. To the right, rocks that trap interesting finds from the sea.

--Posada Jazmin's owners are curanderos that will wrap stings, bites, and burns in leaves or soak them in tea.

--If you tour the lagoons of nearby La Ventanilla by guided boat, wait as late as possible to see all the birds coming to roost in this protected spot.

--Bring cash! They don't want your credit card or debit card here.

I could wax on, about Violeta, the pet raccoon, the energy healer, star-gazing spots, but I'll save them for a part 2 post after my next visit to San Agustinillo.

Looking Forward To Looking Back

2012-01-03T15:42:00.000-08:00

I love taking and looking at photos, but I'm dreadful at the steps between, which these days involves downloading the photos, uploading them again, sorting/editing them into books, ordering the books, and paying for them. I just haven't gotten it together to put together the pieces for the past year, which means too many photographs.

Every time we leave the house for a market, site, holiday, or art show, I yell, "Grab the camera," because I never remember to grab it, but I always remember to yell. While we're out, I implore whoever is holding the camera, "Take a picture, get one of that, don't forget that, I might need one of that."

Every beautiful sight or site in Oaxaca--that monumental sand painting, folkloric dance, giant dancing puppets in a processional, stack of mangoes at the market--is both gorgeous and ever-so-transitory. It's all about to blow away in the wind, die with the music, go into storage, or get sold, so catch it catch it catch it.

There's a desperation I have about losing things, forgetting things. Part of it is about my sister dying, part of it is about being a writer and wanting to arrive at some strange amalgamation of personal truths. So when the photo-taking and presenting overwhelms me, I have to remind myself: this is not the only way to remember things. My favorite way to remember a place, a time, a person, a moment involves a teaching term: "looping." In essence, you don't capture the deepest meaning of a concept the first time you learn it, maybe not the second or third. No worries, because it loops around again, most likely slightly different, but when you're cognitively ready and have had enough reinforcement, the information shifts from short-term memory to long-term memory.

This is my life, my joy, and my struggle. I am the one who has to order the same dishes when I go to certain restaurants (Juan's--quesadilla a la Jesus, Biznaga--sopa azteca, Itanoni for breakfast--Veracruzano). Oaxaca's ever-changing street markets have me combing the streets and aisles for the old woman with the blue-flowered tablecloth who sold me the sweetest watermelon. I return to museums to walk the same floor, find that certain painting that transformed me. Travel plans are a perennial struggle between visiting the new and retracing my steps to reenact a prior vacation. Life as a loop may seem boring to some, but I can't bear to miss the things I find beautiful or delicious, even though one part of me knows I return to things at the expense of discovering the new.

When I taught second grade, I had my students hold up invisible cameras and click photographs of the board when they had shared key information that I recorded. They'd blithely click away and I wonder...do any of them remember that moment the way I do?

Taller Colibri and Unschooling

2011-11-23T10:50:00.001-08:00

Thanks to a long-ago tip from my friend Hilair, I found the forums at the Mothering website and have been following and posting to the thread entitled:

What Did Your USer [unschooler] Do Today?

This practice has been informative, because I've found Taller Colibri's curriculum and daily rhythms have much in common with unschooling, but they also diverge. Some of the struggles homeschooling parents face regarding social issues and managing messes do not apply, because we have our own simple, little building in the countryside of Huayapam rather than running the school from our homes. The great benefit of this locale is the school site's outdoor options, including the property's small gardens and mud and sand pit, and then the area's trees, meadows, farms, and fields.

But it's the village's water sources that have provided endless fascination and experiments. Our group hikes to various spots on the river. The closest one goes under a stone bridge so picturesque that my husband painted it for a commission. There is an altar nearby, and the river is framed by carisso and banana plants.

Another access point has layers of dirt that make it like an archaeological dig site, with layers of old house tiles and broken dishes to discover. The banks have small indentations that make them prime spots for building cave dwellings for gnomes and fairies. But this area has become overgrown and the kids can't access it as easily.

The high river spot is a hike, but you get to cross a field frequented by burros. Here the river descends, making a small waterfall ideal for the children's temporary dams and bridges. They once used the mud and grasses here to mix with medicinal clay we got nearby and created strong, adobe-like bricks for constructions.

Lately the hikes have incorporated the reservoirs of Huayapam. The water level has stayed high, due to a longer rainy season, leaving lots of muddy shoreline to navigate. Sometimes the kids fish here, or pretend to fish, as they have yet to catch anything. They walk the banks and explore the micro-habitats formed by mud, sand, and water. Usually someone falls in for a swim.

I think I've landed on what makes for a successful school, in my mind: A curriculum that results in many changes of clothing, and dirty shoes.

The Road to Abastos

2011-10-21T15:29:00.000-07:00

When Steve & I lived in Oaxaca the first time around, nearly 16 years ago, we would walk the 30-40 minutes to get to Central de Abastos, the main city market. Now, with kids in tow, we drive, and we bring many guests with us. Today we packed five friends in the car, in addition to our family, and parked at our favorite lot that gives you an hour free if you pay the guy on duty to wash your car. A great deal for us and our stinky car.

Abastos rocks year round. My friend Rachel says it's one of her favorite places in the world. I always get lost, hitting the shoes time and time again, and I never, ever am in the market for shoes (my feet are too big for Mexico). But getting lost works here, because there is something down every aisle, and I often don't know what it is when I see it. But the vendors are happy to demonstrate their wares.

This is the kind of shopping that begets more shopping because all I came for was a vinyl tablecloth printed with fruit to cover my muertos altar. But what I've wanted forever is one of those cheap little grills that look like big incense burners. And two kilos of sweet potatoes to cook on it. Next time, because my bag is already full of papel picado, incense, tangerines, avocado, coconut water, glittery bread medallions, finger monsters, a devil mask, amaranth, pumpkin seeds, and peanut candy.

At some point, you just have to stop. But I'll be back soon, as guests are arriving and we always go to Abastos right before Days of the Dead to score altar supplies and watch the throngs of people hauling sugar cane, marigolds, sweet bread shaped like skulls and crossbones, ground chocolate, sugar skulls, toys, booze--the fiestas go on for days, and so does the shopping.

But it seems trivializing to call this shopping. There are no credit cards or coupons or sliding glass doors. This kind of shopping is conversations, crowds, bargaining, sweet smells, stink, giant metal wheelbarrows nearly running you over, women balancing baskets on their heads, and ducking under the tarps set too low for gangly Americans. And jamming it all in a giant sugar bag converted into a tote. And lots of shoes, just too many shoes.

Get Up, Stand Up Week 2

2011-09-14T11:45:00.001-07:00

Today begins the second week of my standing desk experiment. I love it. Crazy love it. This morning, I had to use 2 computers due to tech issues and shifted each one to the top of my table-vegetable-crate contraption rather than sit down. At this point, sitting while typing feels just plain wrong. But I still find myself trying to sit when watching my kids play at the park and other waiting-style activities, so I have to work on this.

I noticed my legs were stiff and sore today, and was tempted to blame the standing desk. But then I remembered I did (brief) plyometrics yesterday at the park--a few rounds of deep squat jumps that spiked my heart rate. And today I pay for it.

Get Up, Stand Up Day 1

2011-09-07T11:04:00.000-07:00

I've been a full-time freelance writer for over four years now. I never imagined I could sustain a full-time business and make a competitive rate, all while enjoying my work.

However, there was a problem. Making money means sitting down, and sitting kills.

I could feel it in my body, even when I exercised, even when I did interval bursts to punk music throughout the day to spike my heart rate. There was this slumping, this collapsing. I'd buzz along with my assignments and look up after 120 to 180 minutes pleased with my productivity and hourly wage and dismayed with the realization I had not moved anything more than my fingertips for the whole time period.

I had gotten wind of treadmill desks and similar inventions, in which you stand and walk at a raised desk while working. The consensus is that walking a slow one mile per hour for your workday does not impede your work tasks and can actually increase your focus and productivity.

Like any good idea, there are ways to spend a lot of pesos to implement such a system. But I can't or won't spend the money for a fancy raised desk, an adjustable desk, and a commercial-grade treadmill to create an active work station.

Instead, four hours ago, I put a vegetable crate on the kitchen table. I wrote while standing the entire time. I wasn't sure it would work for me, as I'm more likely to walk a long distance rather than stand still for a prolonged periods. But the writing captivated me enough that I actually forgot I was standing for large segments of time.

I maintained my words per hour and thus my hourly rate. After four hours in my bare feet on the tile floor I can say I feel a similar leg and foot tiredness I used to feel after a day of teaching.

I could see placing a blanket or mat under my feet to cushion them. Or how about this? Or get a little more cardio in with this?

I could also see sitting part of the day, but balancing on an exercise ball.

I'll write an update in a few days to explore this idea further and report on any complications. And so ends my first blog entry written while standing.

Surprises Beneath the Surface

2011-08-28T16:22:00.000-07:00

Yes, Oaxaca continues to surprise me the longer I stay here, as I begin to understand the language and culture little by little. But it's the fruit and veggies I want to talk about today. This came up on my Facebook page recently, when a friend pointed out that I post rather frequently about a seemingly mundane topic--fruits and vegetables I buy.

To me, in Oaxaca, this is the least mundane of topics! Yeah, I'm vegetarian, sometimes vegan, even a certain percentage raw, but even if I was only getting my requisite 5-7 servings per day, my produce would be an object of scrutiny. Because Oaxaca has funky produce.

Take the humble ruby grapefruit, one of my daughter Geni's favorite breakfast options. Slicing it open releases lots of juice and pulp. The sections are of different widths, rather than equally divided. The taste may be intensely graprefruity or sour or watery, depending upon the season. None of this seems particularly stunning until I visit the United States in the summer and cut open a grapefruit. No mess. Little juice, little pulp. Every section equidistant. The flavor--less grapefruity, but terribly consistent. Consistent produce--unmessy, unvarying in appearance, nearly always the same flavor--does not happen in Oaxaca.

Bananas are a mystery here. Why do they turn brown so much more quickly? Why do seemingly unscathed bananas sometimes reveal themselves to be squishy with bruises once peeled? Why are bananas tiny and huge, starchy and juicy, stringy and stinky, sometimes varying within the same bunch?

You cannot eat a mango without juice spilling all over your face. It's nearly disgusting in its gorgeousness and sweetness. Green tuna fruit--how to munch through those giant seeds? Red tuna fruit staining everything. This fruit is just not practical!

There is some magic to knowing when jicama will burst in your mouth with watery sweetness as opposed to tasting like sawdust. But I do not possess that magic, not yet. My friends know which wild mushrooms make the best broth, and which others are primed for pasta sauce. I just eat and eat them, though they can be dense and kind of meaty and other times slimy and smelling like an underground tunnel where you might find Totoro.

The markets can be captivating or they can be an overpowering, overstimulating blur. Yes I want coconuts but do I have the cajones to machete them open once I get home? How to handle the free samples of lichee fruit, when the peel and the seeds just create something else for me to hold? It's all too decadent, too beautiful, too heartbreaking--how could fruit and vegetables be so different from their northern counterparts, what have these first world countries done to these treasures to homogenize them? But that's another blog post. Until then, slice it, juice it, toss it in Tajin.

Hacienda Hospital

2011-08-27T15:47:00.001-07:00

Here we sit at the brink of our fifth year in Oaxaca. It was the place I dreamed of moving to, assumed it was impossible to make a living in, and now has become home.

But I don't want everyone to think living here is all wine and roses (or mezcal and bougainvillea, to make that cliche local). I tend toward the sunny in most aspects of life, and living in Oaxaca is no different. But yesterday was a litmus test. Steve had hernia surgery at a private clinic here. When you decide to go under the knife in Mexico, you know you've made the commitment. I was nervous, even though I know that the health system has been far more personalized and accessible here. It's a cultural leap, seeing how other countries deal with medical care.

The first surprise--they said I had to spend the night in the clinic with Steve. I asked everyone I knew why this was so. They said there are no nurses, that I'm the one to judge when Steve will need painkillers or use the bathroom or whatnot.

It shocked me. And then it turned out that was wrong. There are so many nurses, and they are so attentive (keep in mind we were in a private clinic, albeit an extremely cheap one, so I cannot compare the care we had to that of patients in the IMSS public care system). We hardly got a chance to rest or sleep with their constant checking.

But there was one key thing missing at the clinic, which I came to think of as a hacienda/hotel for sick people. No nurse call button, and no phone. That was my role--to take the few steps to the nurse office (this clinic had all of five rooms, each one for one patient and a sleepover buddy) to ask for anything Steve might need.

Another interesting contrast: You have to beg to leave. There is none of the HMO-induced pushing your out of your room, or bed, though Steve really really wanted to get out of there. Again, this might have to do with being in a private clinic, though my Oaxaca friends have had long stays in the IMSS hospitals as well.

The system also tends toward over-care. They kept Steve IV tube in much longer than necessary, saying "Why not? This way he doesn't have to swallow the pain medication." I told the staff he wanted the IV out, that he'd rather swallow pills, but no go.

One last surprise--when the doctor came in to consult Steve, he first came over and kissed my cheek. Maybe because Steve knows him socially, but still such a surprise to get a full Oaxaca greeting from a doctor.

For those wondering about clinics and options in Oaxaca, I'll close with one final bit of gossip that tantalized my imagination, for no clear reason. Story has it that our clinic, which was spotless and plain, is the cheap-but-nice option, and that there is another elegant, super high-care hospital in Oaxaca where many of the fresas (yuppies) and retirees go. It would have cost us 35,000 pesos for the surgery and hospital stay rather than the 20,000 we spent (about $1,600 to $1,700). You have to wonder what the extra $15,000 buys you.

Taller Colibri Redux

2011-08-05T11:55:00.001-07:00

We're preparing for another year at Taller Colibri!

We went out with such a bang last year, with the children building a towering Lego ramp and exploring the phenomena of force and motion.

For the upcoming year, the plans will mostly rise from the children's interests, but we have some interesting challenges up our sleeves:

* Maestra Suzanna has ordered both of the excellent math books from Marilyn Burns. She is the math guru that guided my math teaching when I worked in Oakland Public Schools. I had a curriculum, but her philosophies always spoke to me. She values integrating math with writing, reading, games, group work, and deeper critical thinking puzzles.

* We have purchased some cooperative games that will have the students working together to solve problems.

* Some students from a couple different countries plan to visit us and enroll for part of the year.

* Maestra Aerin will join us for part of the time. She is a genius at using found objects and recyclables to create sculptures and installations. This may merge with last year's unit on building labyrinths and fun houses.

* I really wanted to buy the Book of Gnomes for our gnome-hut and fairy house-building themes, but it just does not fit in my luggage! However, Suzanna is tucking a beautiful guide to children's gardening into her backpack, which will hold us until I can haul over this hefty tome.

* Back by popular demand: Our rocking field trip to the Oaxaca coast! We go in low season and often have gorgeous beaches to ourselves. We snorkel the coves of Estacahuite, swim to a hidden cave off Playa Panteon, boat the lagoons of Ventanilla, jump waves in San Agustinillo, and visit the beautiful turtles in Mazunte. For the parents, we prioritize pizza and margaritas on the beach at La Termita. Isn't school grand?

Onto another year of surprising adventures. I'll keep you posted.

The Sound of Silence

2011-08-01T20:35:00.000-07:00

You could think that the title of this post referred to my seeming indifference to this blog of late, but that is not the case. First, allow me to defend myself by saying that I have spent the last months creating an old school print version of my "Have You Seen the Dog Lately?" zine, just like the lovely days of olde when Megan Tucker, Jenny Makofsky and, if we made him, Steve Lafler and I did our cut-and-paste-a-thons. The difference this time was doing the bulk of the writing, the layout, the assembling (lots of paste-ins) and the prepping-to-mail-it on my own (except when Steve helped, thanks be to holy bejeezus hallowed be his name). I'm still working on the doggie, actually.

But, no, the sound of silence refers to my visit al norte. I'm in cul-de-sac land in Santa Rosa and the silence is deafening. I guess this is what people want? I don't remember this from growing up around here, though we mostly lived in apartments back then. And a few times, I've heard people complain when they happen to hear the barest snippet of noise, of life, leaking from someone's car or backyard or whatnot. My NIA teacher, who plays world music as we spin around the room, got busted by neighbors who called the police over her noise, and she's playing mellow world music from 6pm to 7pm. Do people really not want to hear a little music floating from a dance studio?

Walking around here feels a little like zombieland, but perhaps I'm the only one who finds silence more threatening than noise. It points to a good decision we made to move to Mexico, where a little neighborhood party, processional down the street, live band in the garden, dog barking never resulted in police calls and legal threats.

What I want to know is, once you've won your 24/7 silence by raging at and alienating everybody, what are you doing with it?

Teachers' Strike Follow-Up

2011-05-31T17:26:00.000-07:00

I've spent the past couple days relaying questions to my contacts. I greatly appreciate their patience as I ask them to repeat information, clarify statements, give me examples, and share some tricky details about pay. Here are some insights parents, teachers, friends, and neighbors shared with me:

1. The Status of the Planton
Per my friends and the Oaxaca Study Action Group, the teachers will return to the classroom on Monday. The government is in negotiations with the teachers' union regarding its many demands and grievances. My teacher friends say the process is transparent and public in regard to their pay, benefits, and issues pertaining to the school. However, union officials may receive extra money that is not part of the public process.

2. Teacher Pay
Ah, the big question. According to my contacts, new public school teachers make between 200 and 250 pesos per day (the current exchange rate has that equaling $18 to $23 per day), or 4,000 to 5,000 pesos per month ($340 to $425 per month). As teachers stay in the system, they earn an extra 20 pesos per day ($1.70). Teachers work a six-hour shift, plus additional meetings, weekend obligations, training, parent meetings, etc. If they work a second shift with a second group (with each group having around 40 students in the primary grades), they get extra pay. In this case, they may work up to 12 hours per day, plus meetings. They often end up paying for classroom materials and do pay for their own photocopying costs.

3. Union Power
I asked two sources about teacher participation and potential coercion within the union. According to both sources, Section 22 is a democratic union, markedly more so than the national teachers' union with which it is associated. Every teacher gets a vote and teachers must vote pertaining decisions regarding their contracts and strikes.

4. Rich vs. Poor
I have surveyed more people regarding their opinions of the teachers and the strike. The poor and working class continue to express their support while the expatriates, tourists, and business owners are furious, just full of vitriol. One interview subject said to me, "I have never met an American that supported the teachers." An expatriate said to me, "I have never spoken with anyone that supported the teachers." Both of these comments point to the value of listening to people in the neighborhoods rather than the zocalo hotel owners, restaurant owners, parents of children in private school, and foreigners who, as one of my Oaxacan interview subjects put it, "depend on the disparity between Oaxaca's and America's economies."

Conflicted

2011-05-28T18:16:00.000-07:00

'Tis the season for the annual teacher's strike and "planton," basically a sit-in, camp-out that goes for several days in and around the zocalo. What this means, invariably, is that I get entangled in many, many arguments in May and June. It seems that many expatriates, middle-class people, tourists, and wealthy people do not support the teachers. Say what?

So this year I did my research. I went to my neighborhood public schools. I interviewed public school teachers and their children off-site. I interviewed parents of children in public school, many of whom are greatly inconvenienced by the yearly strike because it affects their work schedules. I read the fliers and the pamphlets, though not the local newspapers which I do not trust as reliable sources. I read the articles and analysis at the links in my Oaxaca Study Action Group political news group. I wanted to know what the people around me thought about the presumptions of the petit bourgeois, foreigners, politicos and so on. Here are some of the arguments. To my sources, please forgive any awkward translations of your poetic and well-reasoned Spanish and Spanglish.

Complaint 1: The teachers are well-paid already.

This one is hard for me to even stomach. Public school teachers in Oaxaca have up to 40 or 50 kids for a half-day, and many have another set for another half-day. Teachers reported having to purchase basic supplies for the classroom and using their own money for photocopying primary curricular materials. Also, from the Latin-American Herald Tribune:

"The decision to go on strike was made Saturday after SNTE Local 22 members
decided that state officials had not made satisfactory concessions in
negotiations, union leader Azael Santiago Chepi said.

The teachers plan to occupy the main plaza in Oaxaca city, the state
capital.

The union is not making any pay demands, focusing instead on educational and
social issues, Chepi said.

Teachers want better uniform allowances for students, computers in all of
the state’s elementary schools and electricity in all schools, the union
leader said.

Union members also want officials to find Carlos Rene Roman, a teacher who
disappeared on March 14, Chepi said."

Complaint 2: The teachers' union is corrupt.

Every poor and lower-middle-class Mexican I interviewed scoffed at this comment. They point their fingers at the much larger force of corruption in Oaxaca society, the PRI (which has managed to keep keys to offices, important documents, and major funds out of the hands of the new ruling party). My favorite Oaxacan anarchist echoed what my husband Steve said, "The dead bodies aren't piling up because of the teacher's union. The PRIstas were deadly."

A Oaxacan grandma added that the wealthy and politically powerful like to confuse the issues, blaming the teacher's union for skimming or causing problems when small factions that have nothing to do with the teachers are at fault. On this issue, I'm less clear because I did not understand the examples she gave. There are a lot of abbreviations in Oaxacan political lingo!

Complaint 3: The zocalo is ugly.

This complaint has many permutations, including:

The teachers hurt local businesses.
The teachers scare tourists away.
The teachers cost the city money by striking.

The people I interviewed--and I should underscore that I did not interview people who own businesses, except those who may open up their garage to sell used clothes or serve a daily meal--could give a damn regarding these issues. Oaxaca and its neighbor Chiapas are the poorest states in Mexico. When it comes down to workers (teachers) fighting for basic rights against the major political machine, my neighbors know who has their best interests at heart.

My radical anthropologist buddy had another way of putting it, "It's time to break shi* up." I agree--when you have propaganda for your mainstream journalism, a government that funds dance festivals instead of access to clean drinking water, and an entrenched wealthy class that does everything it can to maintain the status quo, where do you turn? Block the streets, sit in the zocalo, make speeches, pass out pamphlets, fight the good fight! Viva la huelga!

More Taller Colibri

2011-05-23T12:14:00.001-07:00

I've been getting lots of messages and questions about our school project. We are definitely continuing next year, under the same excellent maestra Suzanna. This year's final project is underway. In addition to fishing, gardening, cooking, hiking and Friday field trips, the children are doing an integrated Legos unit.

We have a 40-lesson unit that combines math, science, writing and critical thinking skills to create simple machines and other constructions with Legos. In the first week, this unit was so outstandingly successful that, when I went to pick up the kids, no one moved from their places. They continued working, ignoring my reminders that the school day was over, that they could come back the next day.

On a personal level, this unit has sparked so much creativity around the house. Max found an old pirate ship model that you build from cardboard puzzle pieces and devoted three hours to consulting the instruction manual and creating a three-dimensional ship with a cabin and bridge. Genevieve has progressed in her fine motor skills from using larger Duplo blocks to using standard-sized Legos. And me, I'm a fan of the new Ninja legos. So beautiful, so timely with Kung Fu Panda II coming out.

For more snapshots of daily life at our experiential Oaxaca school, check out Steve's Taller Colibri blog.

Onto another great school year.

41 going on 42

2011-05-22T20:02:00.000-07:00

That way of describing an age "going on" always seems sadder when I think about Jenny. There's this expectation to it--you're going on, after all--and then she didn't. Or maybe I feel she's in constant "going on" mode, but never arriving.

Today I remembered something funny Jenny told me. She was in class and a professor made a sarcastic comment, which was met with silence. The professor said, "Well, that's a Pintoresque silence."

Jenny all-out guffawed (as those of you who know her can imagine, she was a big laugher) and repeated it for everyone's enjoyment, "Pintoresque silence!"

I doubt you'd find a Jenny character in a Harold Pintor play. Almost any other playwright would work. I like to think of her as the lead in a Greek chorus, rolling her eyes and scatting about the drama mamas onstage.

Jenny's birthday is this May 27th, going on to something, somewhere, just not where I can find her.

Mental Photograph

2011-03-28T19:36:00.001-07:00

Steve approached my last week and informed me, "We're invited to this event but...I don't know."

He explained it was the opening of a village pavilion, and that he had been invited to play music there for its inauguration.

How could I not go to this event? It sounded like something out of "Consider This Senora" or "Tales of Eva Luna." Surely a wizened old woman with streaming hair would greet us there and proceed to speak only in proverbs. There would be children playing, and lots of food, and just a tinge of melancholy because it would be too beautiful.

So we went up up and around winding dirt roads, to the hills of San Pablo Etla. The pavilion was a small hut without walls, perched on a cliff side. It turned out a group of college kids in architecture school had come for the week, met with the community, and designed and built the pavilion in collaboration with the villagers. In gratitude, the villagers had cooked everyone a feast, accompanied by bottle after unlabeled bottle of smoky mezcal.

And here's what I liked the most. Bill, the washtub bass player for the day, had gone to the village all week, teaching villagers how to play the bass. So, when the fiesta day came, Bill brought an extra washtub bass and locals took turns accompanying the band. Then, the villagers took over, playing ranchero music while Geni and I did the cumbia and merengue. Thank you, Zumba class.

I could wax on about the band cramming into the outdoor pavilion for a blues jam as the kids and college guys played soccer. How one of the guys was proud of navigating the city market and coming out with a pinata for the party. How a couple shyly asked me what was in the horchata and their eyes got wider as I listed every ingredient. How Max and one of the students got immersed in discussing the merits of a fantasy book series. How Geni and I befriended Maria and asked her about cooking on the Estufa Lorena, the same mud stove we had used at the permaculture farm.

There are times where I feel in the midst of something as opposed to on the fringe. These are rare times, for sure. I was intent on taking a mental photograph of the day so I could carry proof of life's beauty along with me always.

Taller Colibri Rocking the Permaculture

2011-02-24T18:11:00.000-08:00

It's been half a year since we started our alternative school project, Taller Colibri. I've learned so much from my children, the other children in the project, the parents, the people we have met on the weekly field trips, and our inspirational maestra Suzanna.

The key epiphany I have had has been about momentum. Once the children understood that they owned the school and the curriculum, they stepped up. They run in with projects already in their minds, sometimes with supplies they have brought from home. They tend to the garden, they check the supply closet for art materials, they turn on the light and music for quiet time, they cook food for meals.

Some of the smaller aspects of the school have also made a deep impression on me. For example, our start time of 9:30. I can't tell you how incredible it is to not wake up my children, to allow them to get up naturally and not be tired. In the morning, we have time to eat, play, read, visit the cat, clean, whatever. Not having homework has also been so liberating. No longer do we have to chop off a significant part of the afternoon, or break it up inconveniently. We sometimes do far more educational and inspirational things than homework--play at the park, hike, cook together, read at the library, see an art show, visit friends, go to drum class--and we sometimes just hang out at the house or the zocalo. This gift of time has been powerful, even if it means sometimes wondering what to do with it when the kids are fighting or I'm not feeling like interacting.

Creating units based on the children's interests was fascinating. To look back on it makes me realize how far we have come: Force and Motion, Caves and Prehistory, Story boarding and Clay Animation, and Building with Natural Materials. Field trips to archaeological ruins, caves, swimming pools, the organic market, libraries, parks, farms, villages, history museums, art galleries. What a life.

Last week, when Maestra Suzanna suggested that Taller Colibri head up the Oaxaca mountains above Huayapam, to see a farm with permaculture farming practices, I sensed we were in for something different. The little ones had to stumble along the steep trails, but it was worth it. They delved into worm compost bins (we honestly had to pull them out of them), wandered greenhouses, looked for fish and turtles in ponds, walked through buildings framed in local carrizo, and cooked lunch on a mud and sand stove, una estufa Lorena.

That's when I realized how they already understood the place. They had mixed their own adobe at the river to create mud dwellings. They had used carrizo to frame their playhouse in the backyard. They had caught tadpoles in the river and spread compost in the garden, digging up worms to show each other. For them, permaculture was the only culture, as they had only gardened organically and built sustainably. I found they had learned more than I could have imagined, and I believe these are lessons they will carry with them.

beginnings of stories

2011-02-17T20:10:00.000-08:00

I worry about losing Jenny, still, seven years after she died. I want to remember that feeling of having her in my life, and the luxury of taking it all for granted. She was so fiercely loyal to those she loved, and would expect the same.

What was it like, having my sister with me? She made me laugh a lot, and sing and dance at unexpected times, in unexpected places, because she really, truly wanted everyday life to feel like an episode of "Fame." Why can't we all just jump up on tables and do a show-stopping number?

So I thought of you today, Jenny, and tried to carry you with me as I danced hip hop in the park, tossed sparkly rocks into the river, walked the trails of the sustainable agriculture farm that you would have loved, and kissed my children goodnight.

It's not a fair world, this world without you. I want to rail against something, or fix something, or do something that would make these past seven years just a really touching scene from "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." A movie you would have loved.

Genevieve, who never knew you, has taken to looking at pictures of you and saying, "My auntie." Maybe there's a way to slip through the cracks and find you again, make it more than just something she says.

So I'll keep trying to evoke you.

I remember your reading Clo the cow bulletin boards on the drive to Santa Rosa.
You loved going to restaurants.
You turned down the corners of pages in catalogs, and we would laugh because you'd turn down so many, and never buy anything. Or was that me?
You sneaked into a bulldozer.
You practically sat on my feet when we did abdominal crunches.
Your love for certain products perplexed me, particularly Dryel. But I understood loving the drain catcher.
No coffee, not after the Seattle incident. Except birthday lattes.
Having the art postcard was almost as good as seeing the painting.
Bags full of envelopes, to-do lists, receipts, and the beginnings of stories.

Ah, too many stories left untold! How did we run out of time?
xoxo

No skipping hip hop

2011-01-18T09:36:00.000-08:00

When did things swerve so much toward the everyday? I am subsumed consumed by roof repairs, property taxes, immigration papers, and just keeping the house clean amidst random items falling from the roof.

One everyday thing has risen from the mundane, however. My nightly exercise class, which I never attend nightly, fascinates me. It all began three months ago when I saw a chubby guy teaching hip hop in our neighborhood park. I did some digging and found out he was associated with Oaxaca's government campaign to offer free exercise classes in public spaces. Except he wasn't, because he came after the official teacher left. He set up his boom box, stacked in reggaeton, soul, pop and retro hits, and made everyone dance like mad, for at least an hour.

The women loved him so, one night, when he burst into tears, turned off the music, and engaged in a half hour speech I could not decipher, they embraced him. They gave him change for CDs and his mototaxi to class. They congratulated him when he proudly announced he has lost 10 kilos teaching the class. And they supported him pushing me to the front of the class to help him teach, though I tried to stay in back.

So, when 2011 came but the teacher did not, the women did not want to give up on the unofficial class. Perhaps the teacher abandoned them for a paid gig, or maybe he's going to gain back those 10 kilos. All I know is that the women still show up, bringing their own boom box and their own CDs. They quibble over steps, trying to remember his routines. And, at some point, they turn to me, and ask me to come up front and lead a couple numbers. I do it willingly now, because I see how they are struggling to keep the class a class, and working together.

It inspires me beyond the endorphin rush, watching them kick ball change and grapevine and mambo and salsa and merengue. At the end of every class, they gather to guilt trip one another into coming again tomorrow, bringing a bit more resolve into those 2011 resolutions.

On the brink of a new year

2010-12-31T17:44:00.000-08:00

I really love making New Year's resolutions, and I wonder why that is. Perhaps because I'm rule-oriented? Anyway, I cheat a little, rarely making a resolution to do something I haven't already been doing. Here's some random resolutions, then, for 2011:

Bake bread.
Wear better shirts.
Hike more.
Pitch stories.
Write a good zine that doesn't sound slick and commercial.
The subjunctive.
Watch movies.

Imperfect Tense

2010-12-08T17:54:00.000-08:00

Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in.

I quoted this Leonard Cohen song recently, on my Facebook page, and it has stuck with me. I think it captures the essence of Oaxaca, a place so messy and imperfect, filled with music and, well, with cracks in everything. And the light gets in.

I'm wanting to stretch out my hand for Jenny to hold as I watch the river fade to a creek in Huayapam, as I see the new graffiti damning URO and PRI spring up on walls in the centro, as I watch my children run through the parks and the streets of the place they call home.

I feel regretful for not having made a more cohesive tribute to Jenny in these nearly seven years since she died. I wanted there to be this great epiphany, this moment where her stories and folklore and humor and art came together and told me what to do with all of it. But maybe I need to let go of the perfect offering and be thankful for the bits of light, the flashes of memory I've had recently...

Whenever we had an extra seat in our row on an airplane, we'd call it the garage and throw tons of stuff in there.

Jenny valued sleeping in a hammock more than almost anything.

Brandy reminded me that Jenny tracked her tiramisu samplings at various restaurants.

She bequeathed her leather motorcycle jacket to Max. It's hanging in my closet.

She was always torn between going back to the places she loved and visiting new places.

She kept lists.

We ran on the giant sand dunes, and watched the breeze change their patterns.

Whenever I did crunches, she got on the floor, as close as possible to me, to do crunches, too.

Comida

2010-12-07T12:47:00.001-08:00

I've just read a story over at the ExpatWomen website about the family lunch tradition in Brazil, and it has inspired me to reflect on the Oaxacan comida.

The word "comida" can mean just a meal, but it can also mean THE meal, the big kahuna. In Oaxaca, I've found most people follow the traditional schedule of having comida at 3pm or so, when the children get home from school. People take off work, or bring their kids to the workplace, and start the process of cooking several items. There's usually corn tortillas, maybe a broth-based soup with veggies or lentils, whole beans or bean paste, some type of main dish like tasajo or mole enchiladas, and an auga, or a fruit water.

But comida means more than just the food. The whole cultural concept of having the main meal closer to midday than in the evening reshapes the day. Most people in the family find time to hang together and it can be loose, with kids running around, friends, neighbors, maybe a modicum of homework getting done. Rather than the standard lunch half hour or hour I saw in my variety of jobs (though I was often the "eat quickly at the desk" type so I could leave earlier, when possible), comida goes on. People read the paper, practice instruments, make out in the park, whatever, but it seems to go on for a good couple hours. Maybe in my old days in Oaxaca, 15 years ago, this was called siesta, and shops closed. Now some shops stay open, but people may have their kids on their laps and be dining in the middle of the shop.

This major comida time also creates what we call comida rush hour. Everyone picks up and leaves at 2pm or so to collect children, get food, start cooking, or whatnot, and it can be more jammed than the morning or evening traffic. What it also creates, however, is what my family calls "the golden window." The golden window is a space of time, usually between 3 and 4pm, in which you can zip through town, go grocery shopping, pay bills, and not encounter many other people, except those slowly dining at comedors, puestos, and restaurants.

When people visit me in Oaxaca, I sometimes try to hold them off from eating lunch. It's very hard, 1pm hits and they don't want to keep looking at folk art or snapping pictures of graffiti. They don't understand that if they can just wait one more hour, the eateries around them will transform. Waiters pull out sandwich boards listing the comida of the day. It's a fixed price menu, featuring everything from agua, salad, soup, main dish, tortillas and sometimes dessert, and it usually costs under four bucks, maybe five or six if you want to go gourmet. And it's almost always wonderful. Steve and I scored a comida at Maria Bonita last week (it's our date "night" at 3pm)that included tostadas and bread, green salad with avocado, vegetables in shrimp broth, pan-fried fish, orangeade and fruit in honey for dessert, for 60 pesos.

The final aspect about comida that I find quite profound is that, due to its early hour compared to the United States version of dinner, people go out again. Sure, many have to return to work or second jobs or puestos they have set up in their garages. But just as many head out for the parks with their kids, or to walk around, or to slowly shop, filling vinyl market bags with fruits, veg, tamales. The city opens up, for this second afternoon shift, just as my al norte compatriots are getting stuck in rush hour traffic.

Of course, the question always arises, when my visitors try to wrap their minds and stomachs around this schedule: If you eat your main meal at 3pm, don't you get hungry later? The answer: Of course! When am I not hungry? Then it's time to roll out the cena, or dinner, which is a lighter affair, though my son, Max, hasn't gotten wind of this concept. For kids, every meal is comida but, for me, comida is something special, that golden window of time, food, and family.

Oaxaca adventures

2010-11-13T19:01:00.001-08:00

Every year, I turn to Steve and ask, "What if we were in Oaxaca just for a year? What if it was almost over?" Because we're on our fourth year here, and I can't imagine leaving.

It sucked when we got back during rainy season to see our house wet, green, and stinky. It sucked to move out, figure out repairs, and keep the kids happy through all the changes. But we spent those rainy days walking to the Biblioteca Infantil, or watching old Pink Panther cartoons under the aqueducts of Pochote. We ventured to Huayapan, where Taller Colibri, our school is located, and learned more and more about the pueblo, like who makes the best, frothiest tejate and which corners hide the twists and turns of the river rushing down from the mountains.

I never knew when I moved to Oaxaca how certain details off the beaten track would captivate me, how I love a cobblestone bridge and a waterfall surrounded by carrizo more than going to the zocalo, or how I spend more time at my favorite tianguis then I do in el centro.

Our visitors come to town and we still take them to Yagul and Hierve el Agua, but we also take them to tiny puestos in the market and mezcal shacks at the side of the road, loving the small, daily Oaxaca as much as the guidebook Oaxaca.

So, somehow, simultaneously, our itineraries for the year get smaller and bigger. We have to buy Elvida's coffee beans, grown at her plantation in the mountains, every Saturday, but we also have to see the surreal limestone cave formations near Zachila. We must follow our secret river trail up to the treehouse our friends discovered, but we also must see the turtles liberated at Mazunte. I am due at my free hip hop/Zumba class in the neighborhood park every Monday, but am also reserving time to get down to Juchitan for the annual intrepid seekers of danger muxe vela. Here's to another year of adventures.

Oaxaca Dead Dog Zine

2010-11-01T16:57:00.000-07:00

Day of the Dead in Oaxaca is in full effect. I've just added the finishing touches to our family shrine, remembering my sister Jenny Makofsky, Steve's brother John Lafler, my Nana and Papa, Grandpa Abe, Uncle Mike Tanzer, Steve's Aunt Mary Jane and other loved ones who we hope can transcend the boundaries, rise from the elements, and visit us, either through the songs we sing, the dreams we have, or the stories we tell.

Our altar goes beyond the traditional orange and purple flowers, candles, copal incense, papel picado, jicaras of water, and Oaxacan chocolate. We have bright orange plastic jewelry, Hello Kitty hair clips, screen-printed stickers of punk Aztecs, a book of Tim Biskup's paintings, a Tibetan tangka cloud painting, a glass coke bottle of tissue paper flowers, a Japanese toy, alebrije wood carvings, Buddha statues, a collage I made of beasts in the forest, witchcraft powder and blue glass stones (for the ocean, which holds the ashes of some of my family members).

I'm paying extra attention to Muertos this year, as I'm writing a "Have You Seen the Dog Lately" zine about it, and stashing good luck charms, artwork and funky Oaxacan finds within its pages. If you'd like to order a copy, send me 5 bucks through Kickstarter (details below).

Have You Seen the Dog Lately? in print

2010-10-12T10:28:00.001-07:00

Thanks to an invitation/suggestion by the Revenge of Print campaign, I'm entering the challenge to print a real paper version of "Have You Seen the Dog Lately?" this year. I've set up a crowdfunding site on Kickstarter where you can order a copy of "the Dog" which will have a Day of the Dead and Oaxaca pop culture theme, including some funky cool only-in-Mexico inserts and ephemera. I'm both excited by the project and a little sad to think how Jenny should be here getting glue stick all over her fingers and arguing about fonts. Maybe I'll enlist Max's help on that front.

Some highlights

2010-09-19T20:44:00.001-07:00

I've always been about moments rather than the big picture, and I want to share some moments from the first three weeks of our new school, Taller Colibri.

On our observational tour to list simple machines, we had to stop to let a gigantic tractor cross in front of us, its gears madly turning, leaving gouged mud in its wake.

Jacobo designed a full-on roller coaster that successfully made a wheel fly through the air.

Pancho coaching Max on how to hit a soccer ball with his head.

Geni at recess, opening up seed pods and showing them to the baby goats.

Over a few days, Samuel crocheted a tiny cap for a finger puppet.

Max set to work writing a book in the handmade notebooks Suzana had made.

Steve took the older group to the Graphic Arts Institute, where they pored over Leonardo DaVinci's sketches of machines.

Maestra Suzanna, the world's best teacher, taking the class on daily walks to the nearby river, where the kids keep a journal of its changes.

Maestra Rachel created a journeyboard lesson for the kids, who are now slowly painting a pictoral tale.

Every few days, someone asks hopefully, "What do we do tomorrow?" It's a beautiful life.

Rain on me

2010-09-13T20:05:00.001-07:00

I haven't had the space in my life to properly blog about this, but I think it's important to reflect on the fact that it can be tough when things go wrong and you live abroad. When we got back from our very long, very drawn-out summer vacation, and pulled into Oaxaca, the kids were ecstatic. It was 11pm and raining and they could not wait to get back to their rooms. We stepped into the house to find the power turned off. And the upstairs somewhat flooded and definitely still dripping.

Max wept and gnashed his teeth, though Geni seemed to take no notice of the changes and happily set to playing in the darkness and wetness. I felt like melting into the floor. It was too much, all of it, and I couldn't see a way to fix our lives. Steve's and my room was dry, so we all slept there, curled in the big bed, and I stared at the darkness and felt my stomach hurting.

So many thoughts ran through my mind: Do we call this house a mistake and move on? Should I fly the kids back to California and try to get someone to clean up this mess which will surely take a year and cost us too much money? Do we try to find the guys we paid to fix the roof before we left?

In the morning light, I saw mildew growing on Max's walls, furniture, toys, books, and everything still dripping. The wood laminate floor bowed with the moisture and humidity in the house. I was going to have to make life feel normal for the kids, even though I felt kicked down, hard.

And then, a slow unfolding. Houses in Mexico are not like houses in the United States. In Mexico, they flood, they leak, you patch them up, you seal the roof, it slowly dries out. You wash away what mildew you can with vinegar and water or diluted bleach. You launder everything. And it all costs so little, nothing like what it would cost to clean and repair a flooded house in California.

Still then, I heard news from friends. All their houses had leaked or flooded. They had tarps over their roofs, buckets everywhere, closets and drawers filled with water. Someone had a river of mud wash through the first floor of her house, and now lives on the second floor. The stories get more dramatic, too. Far from Oaxaca city, but still in Oaxaca state, a good deal of the Isthmus is underwater. People use boats to navigate the streets. My problems got smaller.

It's three weeks since we pulled into town. We're living in a lovely apartment for the month, as our house slowly dries out and we get work done. For me, this is the lesson of living abroad, where handling a perceived crisis feels so lonely but getting through it makes you feel like you have the world on your side.

Back to school

2010-08-30T19:32:00.000-07:00

I feel such relief. All the gorgeous setting up, Rachel's work in the garden, people brainstorming had added up to something phenomenal. It was the first day of our new alternative school in Oaxaca, Taller Colibri.

It started with us all welcoming one another by the big black rock that stands in the front yard. Then, Rachel took them back to the garden, where they planted corn. They picked lettuce, basil, fennel, and cilantro, added cucumber and carrots, and made a salad for snack time.

I left after that, but Max reported a day packed with adventures. He built marble mazes, strategized gateways by adding modeling clay, rode his bike to the river to study how the current carried natural objects over a waterfall, and prepared deviled eggs for lunch. I picked up a boy a little sunburned, covered with mud, and not ready to leave.

Genevieve also got to ride her bike, read stories with Maestra Suzana, hike to the waterfall, and play in the grassy green field with goats.

I feel joy and hope. My children have a beautiful new school!

Setting up the School

2010-08-27T15:56:00.001-07:00

Whenever, wherever I taught in my life, I started with a messy, junk-filled classroom, typically very dirty. I would spend days sorting through used-up workbooks, spilled substances and grimy lost and found items to figure out what I could clean, salvage, donate, recycle or trash.

Our new school is decidedly different. Rachel visited over the summer, clearing the yard and setting up a dramatically beautiful garden, with walkways for the children so they can approach different vignettes of space to take care of the plants, fruits, herbs, and vegetables. In front, she created a rock fence and a gravel pit for playing with trucks and buckets.

Setting up inside was a matter of dusting off furniture, moving it around and envisioning the possible uses of different spaces. We have a drama and dress-up corner with a mirror, a rest area with textiles and cushions, a music and book library area, and a wide open workspace for art projects, math structures and science experiments. The terraced outdoor space has sports equipment and a kitchen area for cooking projects. Then there's outside, the wide open green space where goats and sheep roam, and nearby the burros graze.

So much good, creative energy emanated from the new space, that I knew the students would love it. Indeed, my children who accompanied me started working the minute they entered the space, while I was trying to set it up.

Thus begins the school year for our beautiful project, Taller Colibri. Colibri means hummingbird in Spanish, and reflects the dedication we'll have to ecology and nature as well as our high-flying hopes.

chang chang changeddy chang shebop

2010-06-30T19:20:00.000-07:00

Everything is de cabeza here in Oaxaca-land. The election is coming and the evil PRI candidate ("Eviel" is, in fact, his name) has his image plastered hither and yon, as does the ever-confusing Gabino, who has managed to gather almost every opposing party to endorse him.

At home, here on Calle Sauces, it's not much better. Our roof is leaking mercilessly, which normally would not keep me up at night, but we have wood floors upstairs--not our choice and why they did this, I'll never know, and they are the wood laminate cheapy kind that starts to bow and sway with even a whisper of moisture.

So why not host a teenage guest when all this is transpiring? And plan a new school, and weed the heck out of its yards, and try to sneak in work when and if the kids go to sleep?

The past month stands out with some crystalline Oaxacaesque moments that I cannot ignore, however, such as Mario, my one-time English student, running across the street to tell me he's entering university in the fall. I like that, how your students from all the years past and all the places you have taught just expect you to be proud of them. And I always am.

One morning at the Xochimilco market, I sat talking with Rachel, Michelle, Yamaleni, and other friends, as the children sat perched in a tree and the marimbistas played.

And under the Pochote aqueducts, to see "Grease" for the dance and music cinema festival, but what I heard was my friends Art and Laurencita singing all the words to "We Go Together" and it made me cry.

We're headed away from Oaxaca for vacation, but I feel desperate for it to stay with me. Will the striking teachers really occupy the Guelaguetza auditorium and stop the festival? Will PRI steal the election (again)? Will our roof get repaired? How could I possibly miss the art opening of the giant-sized alebrijes, or the movie about the Pixies, or my favorite organic applesauce lady returning to the market on Rayon?

This is the Oaxaca pull, how it gets under your skin, because all the little things matter so much. Leaving, at least temporarily, is good in this way, giving me perspective on the place I've grown to call home.

Triangle drive

2010-06-25T18:56:00.000-07:00

I'm staring down the face of a too busy summer, wondering how I got here again. Every time I catch my breath I tell myself "stay here, don't start adding," but there's always something, something. On Thursday, we depart for al norte, the 7-day drive to California. In Cali, it's Max's birthday at Santa Cruz boardwalk, a trip to Fairyland (and meet up with friends and family there, hopefully), tennis camp for the kids, pool parties at a couple friends' houses, Steve's book signing and concert, visit with my Mom, meet my Dad for Chinese food, and maybe do some work?

Then we drive across country, eventually ending up in Boulder to visit more family and friends. From there, Steve flies with the kids to Boston while I continue driving until I see them there! I've never driven across country alone and, while I love being alone and love going long distances, I feel nervous. I hardly drive in Oaxaca, due to completely not being able to figure it out and fear, so maybe I feel out of practice.

On the east coast side, we will hang with Steve's family before heading south toward Mexico, stopping in Philly to stay at my aunt's apartment and maybe stopping at various Native American sites on the way down so Max gets his fourth grade social studies curriculum in one trip.

I was busy at work on an article about summer activities for children when I remembered the golden activity, the thing that erases all fighting and woe. Water. A sprinkler, a bucket, a baby pool, a beach visit--water in all its forms blisses out our whole family, especially if cloud cover or shade is in the equation.

Somewhere in there, I also want to find time to dance barefoot, read a New Yorker, watch a movie, see a play, hike Point Reyes, scour a used bookstore, score cheap art supplies for our new school, and have dim sum and Indian food. It's starting to feel like New Year's resolutions all over again.

Birthday surprise

2010-06-18T06:00:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Liz organized a gathering for me yesterday, a super-early birthday celebration. She filled the table with friends Oaxacan, Australian, US and chilango, and the conversation flowed into Spanish, English, and Spanglish. I felt so grateful for these kind, opinionated, creative women who love to talk about art and complain about homework, compare favorite markets and order their favorite dishes at Itanoni, our traditional meeting place.

Tina talked about insulating her house with Tetrapack, which is made from flattened milk cartons. Her mother-in-law spoke about her beautiful neighborhood of Coyoacan, in DF. Humberto had paintings to work on and people to meet, while Heather spoke of returning to Oaxaca someday, as she's leaving at the end of the month.

The morning was cool and rainy, and the Oaxacan women were bundled up in near-Winter looking clothes, while the expats wore their lightweight blouses and t-shirts. Our contrasts were telling, but the surreal timelessness of the morning, as if we had always been there and would always be there, made our coming together seem like destiny. Here's to Oaxaca friendships!

Our Oaxaca Waldorf back-to-school physics unit

2010-06-15T09:16:00.000-07:00

As I'm researching alternative and Waldorf schools online and planning for the first weeks of our Oaxaca Waldorf school and constructivist curriculum, it occurs to me that others may benefit from the fruits of my research. I've planned a physics unit for our back-to-school curriculum, and thought I would post it here.

FORCE AND MOTION UNIT

Days 1-2:
Introduce materials: balls of different sizes, objects to measure distance, marbles, marble run materials
SCIENTIFIC METHOD Step 1: Ask a question.
How do we make objects move at different speeds?
Draw/write predictions in science and nature notebooks.

SCIENTIFIC METHOD Step 2: Do background research.
Children explore materials.
Discuss observations.
Write and draw children's observations for them to elaborate upon in their notebooks.
Introduce vocabulary of force and motion.
Ask children for examples demonstrating force and motion.

SCIENTIFIC METHOD Step 3: Construct a hypothesis.
Pose questions for the next experiments.
How to increase force? How to decrease force?
How to increase motion? How to decrease motion?
Students can draw/write their hypotheses in their notebooks.

SCIENTIFIC METHOD Step 4: Test your hypothesis by doing an experiment.
Children brainstorm ways to test their hypotheses.
Children discuss the results.

SCIENTIFIC METHOD Step 5: Analyze data and draw a conclusion.
If children did not measure their results, introduce the concept of analyzing how to quantify the level of force or the level of movement to illustrate their findings. They may suggest timing how long it take a ball or marble to travel a distance, using objects to measure how far something rolls, or another method. Give them time to explore systems of measurement and methods for ensuring accurate measurement.

SCIENTIFIC METHOD Step 6: Communicate results.
Discuss/write/draw results of measuring force and motion.
Students can show the results on a graph or chart if they wish.

Day 3:
Repeat same experiments using the variable of friction.

Spark the students' imagination by asking methods for slowing down marbles on a marble run, or for stopping them. Ask what outside substances or elements can accomplish this feat. Test these elements and chart results to compare with the previous days' results.

Day 4:
Extension
Go on a walk and look for evidence of force and motion. Children may notice the wind blowing, birds flying, someone bicycling, etc. Prompt students for examples of how friction can slow down these examples, or how increased force can affect the motion. Student can take notes or draw sketches in notebooks to remember these examples.
Writing connection:
Return to classroom.
Have students use the notes from the walk to create a story or poem based on force and motion. The story may be a literal description of the walk, or it may use elements of the walk as inspiration for a story about the wind, a roller coaster, wheels, or other things that evoke the theme. Students can practice reading their stories with the teacher or each other before reading it with a preschool buddy.

Day 5:
Field trip activity:
Bike riding, scootering, skateboarding and force and motion. Use or design ramps or hills to affect motion.

Day 6:
Write about the field trip activity as a group or individually.
Apply the learning about force and motion to discuss and write about how you would design a roller coaster.
Storytelling: Share stories about amusement park rides or other fun activities using force and motion.

Day 7:
Read about machines that involve force and motion.
Brainstorm a list of machines and inventions that integrate force and motion.
Select a simple machine to sketch, design, and build. (Some easy possibilities include a pulley, a lever-based machine, a balance, a pinwheel, or a ramp).
Make a list of materials and scavenge what you can from outside and inside. Circle the remaining items for the teacher to bring in the next day.
Draw a few sketches of the simple machine.

Day 8:
Refer to sketches and build a simple machine.
Test the capability of the machine and refine its design.
Share the results with the class, teacher, and preschool group.

Day 9:
Draw a comic strip showing the sequence of how you made the simple machine.
Extension: Read other stories about simple machines.

Day 10:
Drama, music, and dance connection:
Create a movement-based piece about force and motion. It might involve miming walking against the wind, pretending to be on a roller coaster, or pulling a heaving load.
Perform the piece for the preschool class.

Critical mass

2010-06-13T20:34:00.000-07:00

Since I posted about our opening a new Waldorf-inspired primary school and preschool in Oaxaca, I've received many inquiries and positive comments, and it buoys me for the work ahead. Many thanks to everyone for your interest and offers to teach and visit and support the school! I find it so fascinating how a blog can help create community.

Max asked me yesterday, "Will I be able to ride my bike at recess at the new school?" I told him how I had been planning a science unit on force and motion for the first month of school, integrating homemade marble runs (and using them to explore roller coaster design), creating simple machines, and testing different skateboard and bicycle ramps. His jaw dropped. It's wonderful how liberating designing constructivist/alternative/Waldorf curriculum feels compared to how planning and implementing traditional curriculum felt.

Next week we visit the Huayapan site for the school and set up the beginnings of a garden so that plants, vines, and flowers will begin to grow during rainy season and welcome the children back to school at the end of August. Thanks again to all of you who have shared your experiences and energy for this project.

On Opening a Waldorf-Inspired School in Oaxaca

2010-06-07T14:43:00.000-07:00

The plans have been brewing! When I spotted the perfect, simple country house in Huayapan, just a small leap from where we live (and, significantly, the birthplace of my favorite beverage, tejate), I saw a school bloom there. The large, black rock in the front yard, the fruit trees in the overgrown backyard, the long roofed terrace for art and music classes, the green space opposite the house, it all inspired me.

And, luckily, it inspired others in my group, too. We're moving an established Waldorf (and Montessori and Freinet) preschool, along with its brilliant teacher, to a country location, and adding a primary program.

I'll teach there two days a week, a gardening/cooking bilingual mom will teach there two days a week, and Steve will take the group on field trips most Fridays, with additional Fridays dedicated to project presentations, performances, or potluck meals with families and children.

An alternative Waldorf school in Oaxaca!

Here is what we're using so far for the Waldorf program at the Oaxaca school: gardening, cooking, music, drama, storytelling, natural materials, handicrafts (but using Oaxaca textile art, taught by an expert Oaxaquena), nature, movement, foreign language (Spanish/English, naturally), song, poetry, and community projects.

We're swapping out some of the more Eurocentric main lesson curriculum for Oaxacan and Mexican legends, archeology, folklore, art, and such, plus having students pick a project focus with which we'll integrate instruction in reading, writing, science, math, language, social studies, and more.

The school opens August 29th, and will have a low tuition. If you are interested in the project and the school, please feel free to be in touch. Here is the daily schedule:

9:30-10:30: Cooking, gardening, physical education (to take advantage of cooler morning hours)
11-12:00: Main lesson, with projects integrating reading, writing, language, storytelling, art, social studies, science, and math.
12:00-12:30: Math/science extension or supplement if the project doesn't naturally incorporate it.
1:00-1:15: Silent reading, journaling, or drawing.
1:15-1:55: Drama, art, music, song.
1:55-2:00: Goal-setting for the next day's projects

Problemo Solved

2010-05-31T21:14:00.001-07:00

It's nice when something just blows over, isn't it? Living in Oaxaca for three years has taught me the beauty of waiting and seeing what will happen.

It reminds me of buying our patio chairs. We knew the chairs we wanted, the kind you see in Puerto Escondido made of rebar and plastic string. Yes, it sounds elegant, doesn't it? Everyone we asked told us the same thing: buy them on the side of the road that goes out to the Etlas. We knew the spot, so we pulled over one Saturday and had a look.

The chairs were lined up in a rainbow of colors. But they were expensive. I wanted ten chairs, so I asked the guy about a discuento. He said, not for these, but I have another style I can show you that's cheaper.

Sure.

The next 15 minutes have him looking for his cell phone so he can call a guy with a truck who can pick up a chair to show me the style. Steve said, "Now we're here for an hour." I knew he was right, and I decided to be okay with it, even though I knew I didn't want the other style of chair. You just can't turn someone down like that.

The guy came, the truck left, the truck came back, and the chair was lovely. I told the men, "I really want ten of the other one, but I know you can't possibly sell them to me for a discount." Which they then did, all because I waited.

So the fury and the helplessness of yesterday's vague blog post just melts down the drain. Someday soon, when I confirm the particulars, I'll reveal the next great project of my life.

Rage against machines

2010-05-30T20:49:00.000-07:00

That's the theme song of my life, though I tend to reject or dismantle machines rather than raging against them.

I've had the great privilege of carving out my life. Circumstances and luck, both good and bad, had me cartwheeling to the situation of my dreams, living in Oaxaca, freelance writing, and having the time to appreciate life, my family, my friends, art, and my surroundings.

So when I get slammed up against a wall of hierarchy and negative energy, here in the place I've chosen, in the life I've fashioned, I look for the path. The path is not the corporate model, not a business model, not the capitalist, consumerist dream--it's the road less traveled by, the one that makes the difference.

The current problem I'm encountering is too sticky to delve into fully. In general, I find some people fall victim to thinking that people should not be heard, should not be represented. I know this type, the self-satisfied elitists who somehow think they know better, but what always surprises me is the type upon whom they prey, the willing head-nodders. Where do these people come from? Are they guided by fear?

I'm happy to realize I've shaken off many of my fears, my tendency to unquestioningly follow rules, in favor of doing what's right. In my work as an educator, I appreciated that notion of justice over law, just as I used to tell my students that fairness meant each student getting what she needs, not each student getting the same thing. I'll use this philosophy to guide me though the next phase of my life.

I will survive

2010-05-27T10:45:00.000-07:00

I just walked by the neighborhood giant corporate grocery store, which blockades of protesters had closed down. Nearby, a driver was taking a snooze in his parked water truck as the radio blared "I Will Survive."

These both seem like signs, things that would have fascinated or delighted Jenny, so I'm writing about them here for her birthday gift. She would have been 41 today.

I had breakfast alone at my favorite cafe, Itanoni, but I imagined her there with me, and with out birthday breakfast buddy Meggie, amid stacks of gifts and the blah blah blahing of constant talk we always managed to produce. There was something about those birthday lattes, the caffeine made us superheroes (if just for one day) flying along to a disco soundtrack. We had ideas and inspirations, we were the new visionaries! So now, when I feel more alone in my radical meanderings and surreal musings, I envision Jenny's vote in my favor. She was always supportive, but her unconditional support of me increased tenfold when she died.

The thing about Jenny was the Jenny of her, how she recounted the plot of a "Mr. Belvedere" episode to us during intermission at the San Francisco Shakespeare in the Park. How she argued the merit of books she hadn't read, but she was always right. How she had picked a favorite tree to live in at Redwood Regional park. She wanted the mystery, the corn maze and the pictographs. She was open to experience and she pried me open, too. She knew things. She wasn't scared of love.

She hides in the tiny and the shiny, in the deep rich earth, in the leaves pushing around the wind, the backs pressed up against Soriana's metal gate, the beats between the lyrics.

The Death of Marat

2010-05-25T20:24:00.000-07:00

Jenny loved "The Death of Marat". We had both seen the image in Moira Roth's 20th Century Art History class at Mills College. Jenny invested a huge amount of time pushing me around the Louvre, trying to locate the painting, a fruitless journey, as it's hanging in Brussels. I think she liked the painting because Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison recreated the image in "The Doors" movie.

It turns out others were deeply affected by the painting as well. It shows up in an R.E.M. song "We Walk." But the painting makes me think about "Sheep Go to Heaven," the great CAKE song, (a favorite band of Jenny's), quoting Samuel Beckett:
And the gravedigger puts on his forceps.

It's a later lyric in the song that captures my mood as Jenny's would-have-been-birthday approaches.

I don't wanna go to sunset strip
I don't wanna feel the emptiness

She got the beat

2010-05-18T16:58:00.000-07:00

Jenny loved beatniks, the poets, the counterculture performance artists of Greenwich Village, the pulp fiction novel covers warning of the dangers of being beat, and, most of all, her own cartoon The Beats, starring Beulah and Bart Beat, and their dog, Kerouac. Sometimes they played bongos or recited poetry, but the Beats typically talked pop culture, current events, and daily life kind of stuff. My favorite Beat cartoon has one admiring when the other throws a pencil across the room and the pencil lands in the pencil cup.

Mexico destiny

2010-05-15T20:48:00.001-07:00

One of Jenny's favorite things was Mexico, of course. We came at least once a year as adults, I'd estimate. Cheap SunTrips packages to Puerto Vallarta, Mazatlan, Zihuatanejo and such, but also flying our favorite dodgy airline, Taesa, to hit Guanajuato and explore its alleys and tortilla offerings.

Jenny wanted to figure out the secret of how to live in Mexico. She thought we could sell the Oakland house, buy a cheap beach house in Bandon, on the Oregon coast (they were cheap when we were contemplating this idea), and have enough left over to live in Mexico part of the year.

What we never realized was how to let go of keeping part of our lives in the United States. If we had seen that possibility then, maybe we would have made the move in time to shift the line of dominoes leading up to her dying. But it seems that it took Jenny dying to push me into the realization that I could give up the U.S. part of my life, except for the loved ones who I do visit when I can and to whom I write.

The Magritte Postcard Museum

2010-05-13T17:38:00.000-07:00

Jenny loved Rene Magritte. When she first came to Mills, to Orchard Meadow, she discovered the prior resident of her room had played a practical joke, covering the ceiling and walls with glow-in-the-dark messages and paint that you only saw when you turned out the lights at night. She hated it, and called me up in tears.

But, after she got used to it, she discovered it had sparked the interest of her friends. People began visiting the room to see the glow-in-the-dark messages. She decided to turn her dorm room into a museum, and posted Rene Magritte art postcards throughout the room. She kept a book at the entry for visitors to sign.

When Max picked Rene Magritte as his research topic for a project at school, he did so because he found her old postcards in a basket. He said to me that he could tell before checking which images were by Magritte. He laid them out carefully and set them by his bed when he slept. When he presented his Magritte project to the class, he brought those cards. I watched as each child held each card, as if it was a work of art itself, turning it, considering it, and telling others the joke, puzzle, or other interesting visual trick to find.

Pirate Jenny

2010-05-12T20:01:00.000-07:00

I met a Gemini Jenny at a party last weekend, and I thought how right that is, with Jenny's birthday coming up this May 27th. She would have been 41, which seems like a just a speck of time, really.

Jenny made lists of her favorite things. She was inspired by a zinester that published lists and drawings on the subject, so she maintained her own. I thought I would post one of Jenny's favorite things here tonight.

She loved Bertolt Brecht, and took a class about him and his work at San Fransisco Freeschool. Maybe she had a little bit of Pirate Jenny in her, which inspired her to collect Ute Lemper and Lotte Lenya albums.

Unschooling

2010-05-02T04:44:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when I'm between inspirations, I wonder what will be the next concept to captivate me and drive me, to keep me up at night, researching, interviewing friends for any last bit of information. Well, I'm onto the new thing now: unschooling. I've always felt suspicious about homeschooling, having met many a homeschooled child in my education career. Their social skills, emotional maturity, and sometimes academic abilities were...odd, like they just couldn't cope with the whole school entity and how to enter it. Now I'm thinking, why should they?

And so I'm researching unschooling, at least as a philosophy if not as an actuality, not yet. The organized curriculum-free, child-led education. Imagine! Imagine if the things that interest Max most--filming short monster movies, writing magazines about toys, drawing treasure maps, building a Tiki fort on our roof, riding his bike for hours, hiking, reading art books at the Graphic Arts library--what if that was his education, maybe supplemented by art class, day trips to archaeological ruins, gallery visits, organic gardening. It's very appealing. It's all about flow, in my mind, how his motivation pushes him deeper into concepts. Of course, then I think it's also all about "flojo"--Max's lazy approach to life, how he loves to sleep in, wake up and read books in bed. But, maybe that's not a terrible thing. Maybe it's what he needs. Or maybe it's the kind of activities children do because they need to decompress from the pressures and boredom of school.

I'm wondering where this will take me.

Language Bomb

2010-04-15T15:12:00.001-07:00

I'm not the type to worry about milestones for my children, but Geni's lack of speech had me in a tailspin. I think part of the problem is how verbally oriented I am, and how easy it was to communicate with Max when he was her age.

So Geni turned four and I just kept waiting for that magical moment when we could actually converse. And it's starting to happen. She's been at a Waldorf preschool for four months now, with one teacher who speaks only English and the other only Spanish, and it has set up the ideal support network and stimulation for her.

Geni now speaks in whole phrases in English and Spanish, and asks and answers short questions in English. She lets me read and read to her, when she used to throw the book across the room.

She code-switches, using Spanish around her Oaxacan friends and English around her foreign friends.

I still wait for the big things, the stories, the abstract concepts, the back and forth of true conversation, but now I see it's possible. I cannot believe that four months in her new school (plus all of her skills therapy) are enough to push her to this new level. One of her teachers, the wonderful Suzana described it to me as "a language explosion."

Her favorite phrases: "I don't want it." "Where's daddy?" "Go to school?" "I'm Genevieve. I'm Geni." Yes you are, Geni, and I'm very proud of you.

Beach Party

2010-03-16T07:18:00.001-07:00

We're back from five days at the beach. This time around, we hit the less-visited areas, beginning with Puerto Angel. Much is made of the nudie hippie druggy yoga scene around Zipolite, but all we saw ere tall waves crashing on an open stretch of beach. We dined on on fresh grilled fish at a Frenchman's restaurant, swinging in hammocks under the stars while sipping margaritas. Nutella crepes for dessert.

The first couple days we hung in Puerto Angel, at a small beach called Playa Panteon (cemetery beach). This spot was pure old Mexico, with Cordelia's small hotel spilling onto the sand. The waves were gentle enough for Max to swim there for hours. We skirted the rocks and managed a swim to a sand bar and cave hidden in the boulders a little way out from the shore. Max shined with the accomplishment.

A tour of nearby beaches allowed us to snorkel at Playa Estacuhite, where I spotted the same blue glittery fishes Jenny, Steve and I found in Zihuatanejo 13 years ago. It felt like Jenny visited me, or at least sent a sign. We went to the more remote Playa Boquila, rough, cool and just swimmable enough on a turbulent day to feel challenging but not overpowering.

Onto a new beach town, San Agustinillo, the favorite of many. It was gorgeous, of course, a stretch of sand with boulders, tide pools, crashing surf, and the requisite line of palapas, hammocks and surfboard rental spots to provide entertainment, food, cocktails and shade. The drawback was it no longer felt like Mexico. Lots of European tourists and businesses owned by non-Mexicans, the latter which is my least favorite aspect of traveling in supposedly hip places. It's lovely to get the veggie food, yoga options, alterna culture, but the locals do not get as much of the tourists' money in this model.

Mazunte on the beach felt the same way. Luckily, locals use the beach, surfing it, swimming it, playing soccer on it, jamming on bongos by it, so it doesn't feel devoid of Mexican people and culture. Mazunte in town felt more Mexican, with the women running the natural cosmetics shop (partially started with a grant from The Body Shop to discontinue the killing of sea turtles and consumption of their eggs and move the economy toward a conservation model) and a beautiful ecological reserve devoted to the life of sea turtles. Onto La Ventanilla Beach, wild and hot, and lined with lagoons you can tour by non-motorized boat. We stopped at an island and drank from coconuts chopped open by machetes.

I could go on, but I think I'll conclude with Geni's poem she dictated to me about the beach:
Green water.
Blue water.
Green, green water.
It's a turtle.

i'm required to go there with her

2010-02-12T21:09:00.000-08:00

There's a lot of things to miss about Jenny, and one is the easy way we talked to each other. I just read an old email she wrote me, one of the last ones, but I pretended I just got it from her. Here it is:

Serena I wish you were here because Gaudi is coolio, he is so cool, cooler than gelato, and I should know, because I´ve eating some.

I have never seen buildings like this. You are required to come here with me and see these buildings. You are to look Gaudi up on the internet right now and enter Casa Batllo, I think that is how you spell it. Or don´t look it up, either way, because i bought a little book and i´ll show it to you and you will cry.

The buildings! The spires are like ice cream cones (and i should know), and Casa Batllo has no straight lines, just curves and sea shapes and blue tile. Oh god, it´s cool.

Food is good too. We already have a favorite tapas place, right near the hotel. And we enjoyed our pizza at lunch, though we were surprised when, after we both ordered the menu of the day (salad, a bottle of water, bread, pizza and chocolate mousse), that we both got a pizza and in fact, we each got a large pizza. Then i looked around and saw that everyone in the whole place had their own pizza. Geez.

Very fun! I´ll try to write again soon. Kiss to Max.
xoJen

I'm thinking up my reply.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, Speak Zapotec

2010-02-09T11:15:00.000-08:00

I've been on some adventures as I have tried to meet the goals of my new year's resolution to live more green.

The complete switch to cloth napkins and rags was nothing. They really work better and look better than their paper versions, anyway.

Recycling issues are another thing. There is no curbside recycling in Oaxaca. In fact, garbage is a whole different ballgame here. You do not leave cans out on the street for pickup. Instead, you wait for the lovely tinkle of a bell or, in our neighborhood, the blasting behemoth of a horn. Then, everyone in the vicinity runs out, most often holding old burlap dog food bags or buckets rather than full-on trash cans. They converge at the truck in one of those classic Mexican non-lines that everyone understands the logic of, except me. Some people pass folded cardboard boxes or bags filled with plastic bottles to the collectors, who sometimes hang it on the side of the truck and sometimes throw it into the back with the garbage. So that does not look like recycling to me.

I noticed that at the Casa de Cultura, a government building where the kids take art classes, signs about the environment. Soon, some receptacles showed up, labeled cardboard, plastic and tin. No one seems to use them. I started clearing out our kitchen cupboards so I could bring a load of recycling down. I sorted it all out and stuffed my things into the bins according to instructions. But, for some reason, I wonder...will they get recycled?

Which brings me to the great epiphany. I've begun asking the people at the street markets who sell yogurt, honey, juice and other liquid things if they want containers. Now, when I load my shopping bag with biodegradable plastic produce bags, I also pack in containers and lids of all sizes so I can give or return them to the various vendors. This act feels more powerful than the other green things I have done this year. It's only the cost of my time walking to the market, and it gives them something they need for free. It uses no energy, like recycling does, and it gets me embroiled in many conversations and situations with the vendors. I'm looking forward to trying to give back my honey container to the old woman in front of my neighborhood park who only speaks Zapotec and seems very suspicious of me. It's the re-use part of this cycle that's proving the most entertaining.

digging deeper

2010-01-25T19:55:00.000-08:00

I'm loving our third year here in Oaxaca, because we are slowly exploring different corners of the state. Our earlier trip to Juchitan, where we saw the Muxe vela, began with a catholic mass with the cross-dressers in attendance. My favorite part was seeing their signs painted on silk flags that they leaned against the church. There were images of a person half man and half woman and another of a man dressed in full traditional Isthmus regalia.

Steve and my dad had another adventure last weekend. They made the 5-hour trip to Huautla and sought out Ines, a shaman who lives near the village's Casa de Cultura. She leads ceremonies with the region's famous mushrooms. She also sings, chants, burns incense and speaks the indigenous language of Mazteco in an altar room set up for this purpose.

My friend Lauren introduced me to a couple jewels within the city of Oaxaca, including the red plush couches at the Teatro Macedonia Alcala's cafe bar. The scene is lovely and bohemian--I feel like I'm in an Audrey Hepburn movie when I'm there. And the margaritas are 35 pesos.

Then there's my to-do list for new places opening in town. La Jicara is at the top of the list. My friend Nina told me about this place. It is a restaurant as well as a lefty/indie bookshop. Steve dropped by and said the place is filled with handmade and hand bound publications with stenciled and screen printed covers. My mind immediately flies to the projects I could do within such a medium.

Other adventures I want to try: the Santiago Apoala region of glyphs, caves and a waterfall; the funky new tiny restaurant that opened next to the Art Center in San Agustin Etla; the soon-to-open Cafe Morocco near Parque Conzatti; the Sunday bicycle ride from the Alameda; and watching a big lucha libre match in a stadium setting.

What I'm learning is that, if you have the patience and the desire, you can discover Oaxaca's subterranean beauties. I am looking forward to showing off our finds to the next round of visitors.

On the edge of a new year

2009-12-31T21:12:00.000-08:00

Firecrackers are popping outside, and the kids sleep soundly through it. That's something I'm phenomenally grateful for. I'm big on new year's resolutions and just resolutions in general. I think I resolve something new every week or so, just based on a person's casual suggestion or something I happen to see.

So it's more challenging to sort out what could be a meaningful resolution for 2010. I know I'd like to do more creative work, something to do with writing a piece about Jenny. But what's most on my mind is trying to live greener.

Oaxaca has a scary dry season, if you ask me, and it gets me worried about water and about resources in general. And my mind always drifts to garbage. So I've sourced out some biodegradable plastic bags that I carry with me in my purse. Whenever I'm shopping, here in Mexico, the kingdom of plastic bags for everything, I whip out my bio version and use it instead, and empty it out at home to reuse later. I've bought a few of my favorite vinyl market bags (though my Mexican students said it made me look like their grandmas) in various sizes, so I always have something to carry somewhere.

I also want to reduce our paper usage. We've made the switch to cloth napkins easily. I was worried because we have no dryer that keeping up with napkins would be too challenging, but napkins fit in any wash load and dry on the clothesline almost immediately. I've never used paper towels, but I've had to persuade the household to use the cloth rags I have around instead of paper.

Starting my compost pile was successful, thanks to my friend Sadie's guidance. I will boost it by expanding the number of pots in which I keep all the great veg and fruit scraps.

Someday soon, it will be planter boxes on the rooftop. I want to grow veggies, fruit and herbs. We have our rainwater catchment system for watering.

I'm always impressed with Oaxaca and Mexico in general because, despite the lack of infrastructure, people here get by on so much less consumption. In the whole green picture of things, it's the reduce part of the equation that matters the most. I posted this all more concisely on my Facebook status, vowing for less crapola in 2010. I'll be seeking out other methods for attaining this noble goal.

Expat Paranoia Sydrome Redux

2009-12-13T17:57:00.001-08:00

A short piece I wrote on this very blog, "Expat Paranoia Syndrome," is the story of the month over at Expat Women. If you haven't read it yet, you can check it out on the website:

Expat Paranoia Syndrome

Moving to Oaxaca and then--

2009-12-03T19:23:00.001-08:00

Moving to Oaxaca with kids was not a huge leap for me but realizing that we've been here over two years does startle me. I wonder if I start to take my surroundings for granted. We spend our days rushing Max to Colegio Teizcali and Geni to her new Waldorf school that she loves, then we work, get Max and Geni to after school things--when you get down to it, what's the difference between living here and living there?

For me, the difference is in the details, that much of it happens in Spanish, in buildings painted indigo or terracotta or orange, with graffiti and agua fresca everywhere.

I've framed my week around certain rituals I dearly love. There is the organic market at Xochimilco, where I get my torta with wild greens, Coloradito mole sauce and cactus, and a chai and a tejate on the side, because who can choose? There are my weekends at the Casa de Cultura, listening to children practicing indigenous dances and classical music. Our Friday morning breakfast date at Itanoni, a restaurant dedicated to maintaining biodiverse species of corn, sparks many happy conversations between me and Steve. The markets, the revolutionaries, the wrestling posters, the chuggy buses, the cacti, the calendas, the kiss on the cheek from neighbors and friends--it's all part of my walks to pay the bills or pick up tamales.

Our third year here, and I've found I work a little too much and we don't venture to villages as frequently. The quantity of visitors has declined, and certain bureaucracies frustrate me more than fascinate me. But, through all of it, I equate Oaxaca with my destiny. There is no other place I know so messily beautiful, so profoundly moving, even in the smallest details, the brooding shapes of cloud shadows moving across the mountains or the sounds of brass bands in the distance.

turn and face the strange

2009-11-17T18:48:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think I'm walking around, living my normal life, but I find myself catching my breath as if I'd just been punched in the stomach. That's how I've felt these past couple weeks, doing the same whirl of parties and classes and work and adventures and, all the while, grinding my teeth and waking up with crashing headaches.

Geni's teacher at school does not seem to get her, does not seem to want her and, in fact, may actively dislike her. It's a shock when, the last two years, her teachers loved her deeply and she them, but I try to remember how very few teachers understood or even noticed me. It was part of my mission as a teacher, to look the traditionally overlooked students in the eye, to get to know them so I could recommend a book at the library to them or remember their birthdays.

Geni's just four, after all, this is preschool, it should all be games and songs and happiness. And the funny thing is I think it is, a lot of the time, happy days at school for Geni. Just not for her teacher. Geni has speech delays and motor skill delays. She's also mischievous, this I know. But can't her teacher see all the love she has, and the joy and the creativity? It sucks the air out of me to think about this.

I tell myself it is better to know the situation and move forward, so I am. I've found a lovely school for Geni and am hoping Geni and her teachers will find common ground.

I'm too tangled in emotions to dwell on this now but, someday, I'll write about this with some order and some insight, and hopefully I will sound wise instead of lost.

It's times like these where a sister could come in handy, to remind me not to sit in my soup and moan about it, to remember that it is Geni's perspective, not mine, that truly, deeply matters in situations like this.

It's a thin line between

2009-11-03T18:01:00.001-08:00

Dia de los Muertos has come and gone. My third one here in Oaxaca, but it felt so different this time around. I understood more, for one thing, particularly some of the symbolism behind the altar objects and the stories behind the folkloric figures.

But there's something else, too, and it has to do with how terribly slow I am to feel part of what's around me. I watch and watch and definitely enjoy describing what I see and hear, but fully participating requires another leap.

So it was somewhere in the midst of the calenda processional with the brass band and my dear friend Liz hissing dance instructions to me that I realized I had become what I typically observe. We were jumping and spinning, with kids dressed as death, devils and skeletons winding around us, and I saw the cameras pointed at us.

Max noticed it, too, while playing and dancing at the San Felipe cemetery. "Mommy, the people took movies of me!"

There's always a kind of limbo in being here, stretched between two cultures, really not fully immersed in either one, and it takes something as beautiful and enveloping as Day of the Dead to make me forget to be an outsider.

Perhaps it was Alba welcoming me to sit at his ofrenda, a gravesite he and his family decorated with symbols representing fire, water, earth, the living and the dead, and the narrow lines between all of them. Maybe it was the red wine! The swirl of goings-on and the constant music and flowers and candles and copal incense began to feel like something out of a painting, or maybe a dream. It reminded me of an Aztec belief that life is just a dream and only upon death do we awake.

If so, I imagine Jenny on the other side of that thin line of flower petals, a line that a puff of wind or a bit of water could blur or break, even if it's just for one night.

Altared States

2009-10-07T10:34:00.000-07:00

My favorite time of the year approaches--Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. I wrote "Altared States," a piece about Oaxaca's unique take on the holiday as well as some of the traditions around it. Go Galavanting, an online travel magazine geared toward women, published my article. Here's the link:

Altared States

Freak and Geek

2009-09-24T19:27:00.001-07:00

Something I never get used to about living in Oaxaca is how I'm, in essence, a freak. I'm a big tall lady with a big Jewish afro and I'm not, you know, a quiet person. In my most insecure moments, I think every laugh on the street is a laugh at me. But now I've joined a health club and I stand out even more.

I'm the type who gets bright red in the face and sweats when I work out. To the point that people in the U.S. even noticed at times. In Mexico, where many people not only do not seem to sweat, but they also do not appear to mess up their hair or clothes while working out, I feel like a sweathog. Yeah, I'm Vinnie Barbarino or probably Arnold Horseshack and I'm strutting in saying "Hey, Mister Kot-ter," while everyone else comes and goes speaking of Michelangelo.

It's not like I have ever aimed to be cool or anything, but I wouldn't mind the advantage of occasionally being able to keep a low profile.

It hit an all-time low this morning when I went to Pilates. The Spanish instructions had me a half beat behind everyone else. I towered over everyone, all the more apparent with my bright red face. And then they brought out the medicine balls. Is that what they're called? Those giant exercise balls. We were supposed to balance ourselves supine across them in order to lift or stretch or exhale or inhale, but I found myself uncontrollably rolling around the room.

Panic rose in my throat, but I kept one goal in mind: just don't roll over anybody. If I can get through the class without flattening my classmates, I can call it a success. But will I ever go back?

Half as much

2009-09-20T18:31:00.000-07:00

I've been busy since school started with serious party-hopping which means many pinatas to be broken. I've also had some great fun hanging with new friends such as Lauren, Sadie and Heather. The upswing in social activities means that we do way less village exploring and it means that we wind up at home between parties rather than out and about.

I'm a Cancer and I like hanging out at home, but something shook me the other day. I was walking out of my Osho meditation gathering and saw a house for rent. The house was on Jacobo Dalevuelta, right next to the house Steve and I rented when we lived here 12 years ago.

All of a sudden, I saw a different life unfold for me, where we lived in the centro as opposed to in a quiet-ish neighborhood. Where we'd be smack between two parks, across from a yoga center and right by a Friday tianguis. It would be the hubbub life, where you step outside your door to see what's going on. Twelve years ago, we would stand on our balcony and listen for the calenda processionals, dashing out to follow the brass band.

I felt myself longing for that version of Oaxaca. But does that version include kids and getting them up to Volcanes for school every day? Crossing bloody Ninos Heroes de Chapultepec--in essence, commuting? It seems silly to commute to take kids to school when Steve and I both work at home full time and enjoy the fact that we can take a back country road to the school and get there in 10 minutes. And that I can walk back in 25, stopping for a cactus smoothie breakfast on my favorite median strip.

I like rituals and checking in with neighborhood people, but I also like ambient buzz. Maybe we don't have enough of that around here?

Then I wondered if the old life I romanticize about includes the ability to have Jenny around. It reminds me of something I said to my grief group therapist a couple years ago, that I lead a second choice life with Jenny gone. I've reconciled that somewhat because I suspect many people don't even get their second choice life.

Then I remembered something Jenny said that I think I blogged about before. My dad once told us, "We Makofskys always have to work twice as hard for half as much." Jenny said, delighted, "Half as much! I love half as much. That's enough."

House of Cultcha

2009-09-07T19:59:00.000-07:00

My lovely friend Nina introduced me to the wonders of La Casa de Cultura. Here is one thing Oaxaca's government seems to get right, funding an ornate building with arches around two inner courtyards, with creative arts classes going on in classrooms tucked behind the arches.

I took Max to his Introduction to Theater class there on Sunday, and spent the time listening to violinists practicing, watching ceramicists forming dinosaurs and catching glimpses of children practicing folkloric dances.

The experience made me think about the childhood I'd like Max and Geni to have, growing up pursuing creative endeavors at La Casa de Cultura. At one point, Max caught sight of a boy his age carrying a large canvas with the beginnings of an abstract painting. "That's what I want to do!" he insisted. And chess. And science. And origami. All of it amid the galleries and colonial architecture, the strains of songs and stomping feet, like something out of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel.

Back to School Again

2009-09-05T06:33:00.000-07:00

I've got the school supply list for Colegio Teizcali's preschool in front of me, which caused a certain amount of headaches. Here's the list, including some of my bad translations:

1 workbook with small squares
1 workbook with big squares
2 professional notebooks for drawing, each 100 pages
1 double-lined notebook in the style of Italian binding
2 pencils (for writing, not drawing)
2 boxes of wooden colored pencils (24 colors) tagged with name
1 plastic pencil box tagged with name
2 pairs of rounded point scissors
1 "migajon" eraser
1 toothbrush, little cup, two toothpastes with flavor (except mint), tagged
1 comb or brush for hair
1 industrial gray robe with long sleeves (for sale in "Boneterias) or "mandarla hacer") with the name embroidered
2 educational games for the class library (puzzles, blocks, memory, "chalupa" [Ed. note--isn't chalupa a dish at Taco Bell?]
1 box of 24 crayons
1 small towel for hand-cleaning
1 big shoebox with the top covered in ultramine shade paper with her name
For swimming: bathing suit, swim cap in the color indicated by the swim teacher, goggles, sandals, and towel or bathrobe

It makes you tired, doesn't it?

Welcome Back to Teizcali

2009-08-30T18:20:00.000-07:00

We've begun our third year at Colegio Teizcali, so you would think we'd start to feel like old pros, but there is still the first day of school nervousness and confusion. The principal, maestro Daniel, sets up a path of flowers for children to follow as they enter school. I was pleased to see Geni chose not to throw herself down on the flowers and succumb to sobbing like she did last year. Instead, she just hid her head in my shoulder.

I was prepared for this year to feel different, like maybe I'd lose a little bit of the wide-eyed newcomer's wonder in things, but nothing beats having the kids at school all day to bring back some of that everything-is-new-again excitement. My walk home, past the bright concrete buildings, hidden gardens, rusty metal signs and women cooking on comals in doorways, was like meeting old friends. I stopped by my juice lady for a cactus smoothie but, due to my slow meanderings, got there only after she had run out. She promised me, "I'll set aside a green one for you tomorrow." Which she did.

I set to spending the day writing like a demon, finishing up an article on telenovelas--soap operas--for Aishti, and a bunch of web writing that wasn't nearly as interesting, all the while kicking myself: never plan a packed work day on the first day the kids are back in school. The first week, really, because you need to be flaky.

Geni's teacher at Colegio Teizcali is Maestra Alma, a teacher so wonderful that Steve was inspired to say, "She just might be as good a teacher as you are." I think she might be better...a bit more patient than I ever was. Max has Maestra Clara, a teacher who earned fame for transforming her classroom into a haunted house last year. We can only hope for such grand permutations this year.

But I believe the highlight of all the changes and the returns this week has to be what happened today. We discovered another neighborhood street market. Nothing pleases me more than a tianguis, an open-air Mexican market that extends for blocks upon blocks.

This market, in the Infonavit neighborhood, had many of the standards--a couple ladies ladling tejate, my favorite drink; booths of piratas or bootleg DVDs and CDs; the newly-popular Indian clothing puestos; croc knockoffs; and Tokidoki-like purses of Japanese cartoon characters. There were a few surprises as well, such as a crepe stand, a manicure booth, a waxing booth, modern paintings, a guy selling exotic leafy plants out of the back of his pickup truck, and a practical joke and magic trick stand.

It was a Fellini movie moment as the man at the magic stand did trick after sleight of hand to advertise his wares. We oohed and aahed and purchased three for Camillo's birthday present, and then Max got a container of moisturizing cream with a fake snake coiled inside, ready to spring up at any sucker who took up Max on his offer of hand cream.

The magician puffed on fake cigarettes packed with talcum powder and I felt the market watching us watch him. Who gets to be this lucky?

Boolean Operators & Pippi Longstocking vs. Ikea

2009-08-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I forget how interesting and odd that sister of mine was. Luckily, I have the Barnard Zine Library and Jenna the librarian to remind me. She has just posted Jenny's graphic organizer, "Boolean Operators & Pippi Longstocking vs. Ikea," from an old issue of "Have You Seen the Dog Latley?".

We've both always been very big on Venn.

You Know You're a Sister When

2009-08-16T19:57:00.000-07:00

My friend Carole introduced me to a website called The Sister Project. There' a writing exercise on there, where you finish the phrase, "You know you're a sister when..." I like this exercise, because it reminds me that I still get to be a sister, even though Jenny's gone.

when you appropriate her memories, not being able to distinguish if something happened to you or to her.

when you have someone to fill in the blanks of your random associations. I called Jenny once and said, "What is the word I'm trying to remember? The one that the book Me and the Terrible Two was all about?" She didn't have to skip a beat. "Nepotism."

when you don't have to think about what you're saying.

when half your clothes are actually hers, and vice versa.

when you dream about her and all the world of having her comes back to you like it is just there waiting for you, if you could just summon it up at will.

So you think you can dance?

2009-08-15T19:46:00.001-07:00

I cannot pay adequate tribute to our 8-day journey from California to Oaxaca, especially since, after we returned home, we all came down with the stomach flu. I blame the bootleg Chuck E. Cheese pizza parlor and arcade off the highway in Puebla.

Puebla, in general, was not good to us. We found ourselves in Friday's late rush hour, stuck at an OXXO (sorta Circle K) essentially giving up. We could not wrangle our way through the mess and the gnarl, so we decided to make the 4-hour drive to Oaxaca on the almost-done tire over the rocky road. And then, like a beacon, the City Xpress hotel popped in front of us. A strip mall. A generic trying-to-be boutique hotel, flanked by a bowling alley and a aforementioned Chuck E. Cheese. Max said, "This is the nicest place we've stayed the whole time." You can take the boy out of the suburbs, but...

Why lead with the low points, though? I could mention the Mazatlan mini-vacay, with a 10pm visit to a quickly disappearing Olas Altas beach as the tide came in. I kept yelling to Max, "Only five more minutes!" but it was truly beautiful. On the way out of Mazatlan, I leaned out the car window and asked a roadside vendor for a bottle of fresh, cold coconut water, which is sold at many busy intersections. Mexican road trip food has it all over U.S. road trip food (except for Poblano pizza).

The definite high point caught me by surprise. We were all cranky over the recent loss of Snuggles, Max's favorite stuffed gorilla that he left in the hotel room in Los Mochis. I suggested we take a half-day vacation from our road trip, and veer off to Guanajuato, a place Steve, Jenny and I used to hang.

It worked. GTO is a city of subterranean streets, tunnels, bridges and cobblestone alleyways, all of which appealed to Max's "I'm lost in a labyrinth" and Geni's "I'm Velma from Scooby Doo" fantasy mentalities. I dragged my kids along to see all the old favorite haunts, and they did not complain. They loved the gardens and crumbling remains of the ex-Hacienda de San Gabriel de Barerra. Max willingly discussed the artwork and its symbolism at the all-Don Quixote museum, one of my little strange treasured places. And they even hung for a 9pm visit to Truco 7, the funky kinda bohemian cafe where we scored blacky purply mole enchiladas. It reminded me why Guanajuato was always our second choice, after Oaxaca.

Coming home to Oaxaca, we're caught in this strange time warp of waiting for school to start but also trying to get better from the stomach bug. I can tell I'm starting to improve, though, because I was researching an article and came across a mention of Bollywood Booty dance fitness, and I got excited, thinking, "I will have a Bollywood Booty." Now that I'm two years into this Oaxaca lifestyle, and perhaps have this freelance for a living thing figured out (knock wood), it's time to focus the year on dancing, I think.

Jenny Makofsky's cartoon "The Beats" on view

2009-08-11T16:35:00.000-07:00

One of Jenny's standout ongoing contributions to our old zine 'Have You Seen the Dog Lately?" was her comic "The Beats". The strip followed Bart and Beulah Beat, two beatnik best friends who made observations about philosophy, pop culture and pop tarts, all in beat-speak. Anyway, one of Jenny's best strips, "Post-Monsterism", is now posted on the website of the Barnard Zine Library. Get your "Beats" fix on:

Post-Monsterism

Pacific Northwest Heyday

2009-07-19T03:22:00.001-07:00

Welcome to my first blog post as a 42-year-old. It is not the highpoint of my trip al norte, what with it being 3am and my balancing my laptop on my knees as I type in the bathroom of the Medford Motel 6. But the past week in the Pacific Northwest has held many highlights:

*Stopping at Granzella's free olive bar on the way up
*Eggplant burger at Gepetto's in Ashland
*Berry-picking at Sauvie Island
*Walking Alberta Street
*Hanging with Jen and meeting baby Marley at Wilshire Park
*Dancing at the NIA studio with Megs
*Playing in the water area at the Children's Museum with Max and Geni
*Aladdin's twice for veggie Mediterranean
*The all green paintings show at the vegan shoe store
*Singing "The Night Chicago Died" in honor of Jenny at The Alibi Tiki Lounge with Mary Lou and Meg
*The Stella meet and greet for Max
*Playing Frogger at Ground Kontrol with Steve, Max, Geni and Meg
*Powell's with my mom, Steve and the kids
*Seeing J.R.'s new paintings
*Hiking to the top of Multnomah Falls with Max
*Chilling for four hours in Alberta Park, watching Max and Geni swim and make friends
*Indian sides and talking love, sex, marriage and babies with the Stephanies
*Explaining to my friend why she might want to have sex with her boyfriend before breaking up with him
*The water and light show at the Enchanted Forest
*To come: a morning playing in Lithia Park along the creek

Go Moto

2009-06-12T18:35:00.001-07:00

One of the advantages of our strange location in Oaxaca (not quite in the center of things, not officially the municipality of Oaxaca) is that we live near moto-taxi country. Motos run on the back roads only, because taxistas have licenses for the main roads.

A typical moto consists of a motorcycle front with a little roofed cart attached to the back. Usually no doors. The windshield sports a nickname, possibly quite descriptive and sometimes in English, such as the man with the "Night of the 1,000 Loves" moto-taxi last week who asked for a Spanish translation of the nickname and then laughed delightedly.

When the car is broken (often), we grab a moto to get the kids to school, joining the legions of mommies and daddies hauling babies, backpacks and market bags into these lightweight taxis.

Paying for a moto is a fixed price affair, 5 pesos per person, although you never know what happens with kids. Some throw in the nena for free and others go for half price.

Since the motos have to stick to a pretty defined, limited area, the routes do not vary widely. I used to go into a long description of where Colegio Teizcali was located before a friend was kind enough to point out that all I have to tell the moto-taxista is that I want to go to "la posta", which, I believe, is the large post located on a corner across from the school. To get back home, rather than awkwardly trying to pronounce Rio Quiyotepec and then trying to direct us there, all I have to say is "a la antenna", which is a giant antenna structure two blocks from our house.

Moto-taxistas are big on swerving. They like to turn off the engine and coast down hills. They hook up CD players, Ipods and flashing lights to pimp their rides. They are often young, maybe pre-driving age, and there is a healthy portion of women operating them.

When we ride moto-taxis, my kids become puppies with their tongues flying out of their mouths in the open breeze. Every bump, ditch and turn is up for speculation--will we make it?--and conversation--we made it! Graffiti is brighter, the air a little less diesel-tinged and the markets something to avoid rather than to dive into. Whenever we take a moto up to Colegio Teizcali, the kids tumble out laughing and thrilled, like we just got off a roller coaster. And me, the one gripping onto Geni to keep her from jumping for joy, holding the backpacks between my knees so they don't get lost as we sail over a speed bump, trying to grab onto the driver's unbolted seat to hold us all in place, I love it all dearly, too.

Post Mastectomy Alternative Clothing

2009-06-06T18:13:00.000-07:00

It has been a hell of a two years since my mastectomy, weighted down with a heavy silicone prosthesis and one of those very modest bras meant to hide the slightest hint that you ever had surgery but that show when I wear the slightest v-neck, scoop neck or skinny strap tank top.

Because these sturdy, practical items are in need of replacing, I've started doing some online research to find alternatives to the very modest, cover-it-all-up options for post-mastectomy patients.

I'm extremely happy to share a blog entry I found, addressing my challenge:

Post Mastectomy Supplies by Hester Hill Schnipper.

She talks about various options, and links to a wonderful website called BreastFree.

BreastFree, in turn, links to many places to order lighter, different breast forms, cool tank tops, and all sorts of stuff.

I wanted to share this information in case anyone else out there is searching for new options.

Super Seco

2009-06-05T16:58:00.000-07:00

New dimensions of Oaxaca have been revealing themselves to me lately. Firstly, there's the wonderful ecstatic dance experience I've discovered at Casa del Angel yoga center. It's called Osho Moving Meditation, I believe, and it combines manic, freeform, barefoot dancing to live drumming with sudden, absolute stillness. It reminds me of the great Freeze Dance game you play with preschoolers, or that old statues game I can never quite remember all the rules for that I used to play with friends in the backyard at Vestal, New York.

I finally hit the other "big" organic-y natural market in Oaxaca, at the old railroad station. It's very lovely to see a market under the old signposts and waiting area for trains to arrive. I wish there was still a railroad system here. Our friend told us he and his girlfriend used to take the sleeper train to Mexico City, which included dinner served in the dining car and foldaway beds. Deluxe! The market itself was small, but there was a vendor selling organic seeds so I have now sourced the beginnings of our organic rooftop garden. And I also found a woman preparing fresh blue corn tortillas to make wild mountain mushroom tacos.

We also finally ventured to Atzompa, spurred by the incredible pottery show we saw at the State Folk Art Museum in San Bartolo Coyotepec. The pottery here is glazed, unlike pieces in other villages around Oaxaca, and it is phenomenally, shockingly cheap. We came home with a trunk load of plates, bowls, planters, garden boxes and dishes for catching water overflow, and we spent under 50 dollars.

My dad comes for a visit soon, and I'm already beginning a mental list of the places we'll go. Yes, of course, Italian Coffee Company, Oaxaca's version of Starbucks, my dad just can't stay away. And there will be the everyday things, too, like coming to Max's final presentation at school and his 8th (8th!) birthday party at Poing Poing, the super doble fiesta de Max y Inoa. Super-seco! With a Madagascar theme, in honor of gender neutrality.

But just in case you thinks it's all organic honey and bougainvillea over here, take heart: our new rooftop patio is sporting a split beam, the key supporting beam, and sagging dangerously. The connecting pipes in our water catchment system has fallen down due to, well, rain.

Imagined Birthday

2009-05-27T06:53:00.000-07:00

Felicidades, Jenny, you would have been 40 today. I'm trying to conjure up what you might say or think about it. You'd wear a great shirt or some killer black boots, and your sparkly hair clips. You would meet Megan and I at Cafe Royal, which I don't think exists in the exact same form anymore. You would have a nonfat latte, no cinnamon, and a croissant. We'd try to get the couches.

Meg and I would force you to open your gifts and exclaim over each bit of wrapping paper, sticker-covered gift tag and contents within, most likely having to do with art, craft, kawaii, folklore or an inside joke. We'd talk about work, passerby, Max, our families, guys, movies, books, zines, politics and plans, always plans. It'd be the season of the fun list, after all, where we comprised goals for summer diversions, like having a gourmet picnic during Shakespeare in the Park, or stenciling up a neighborhood with a secret slogan.

Then we'd rush off to our various corners of the universe, but you'd have a day full of celebrations. People, maybe the Eating Club, taking you to lunch or dinner, preferably for something ethnic and spicy chased with some fried plantains. You might hit a movie or a cafe, or people might expect you to come to their houses and grace them with your presence. The party would go late, and then you'd come home and tell me the details and show me the goods.

If you were in Oaxaca with me, we'd have started the day with the kids tackling you in bed. You could have joined us in mango for breakfast and a mototaxi ride up the mountain to school, where each bump merits a laugh or speculation over whether we can make it. We could have walked home, commenting on the stellar banana plant in blossom or the vintage rusted Wonder Bread sign hanging by the Walkway of the Secretaries. We could hit Cafe Cafe for organic cappuccinos and pan dulce and then go to a museum. Or we could hike to the waterfall in San Felipe. For comida, I'd take you to La Biznaga for cocktails and salmon or shrimp in tamarind mole. Your gifts would be artesania from the villages or daily items from Abastos.

We would sing old pop songs and old-timey tunes loudly, off key.

Can I summon up this day for you, and you for this day? Because 40 is something special, I think. xoxo

Do something brave

2009-05-24T17:46:00.000-07:00

It's three days until Jenny's 40th birthday, and I find it only fitting that I'm reflecting on what Hilair told me she does to remain inspired by Jenny: do something brave.

There are a million small moments of bravery, I think, like when Max told me he was ashamed that I mentioned my mastectomy to Liz, a parent at the school who works for a gynecologist and knew where I could find a new prosthesis in Oaxaca. I told Max he could be proud of me for fighting cancer, but my insides wanted to cry when he said that to me. Maybe the bravest thing is to reflect on what happened to me nearly two years ago, because I don't let myself think about it, read about it or even look too closely in the mirror.

Another type of bravery, I think, is meeting new people. We spent the weekend visiting the houses of new friends. On Saturday, it was Miguel, Rosa and Kobe for an afternoon talking about art, writing, children, gardens and books. Rosa shared a story about how, years ago, she was sitting in the zocalo when she was approached by a man. He said he was a painter and asked if she would model for him. She agreed. The painter turned out to the maestro Rodolfo Morales, and the painting was the famous huge mural in the municipal palace. In the painting, she is making some kind of offering.

On Sunday, we spent the afternoon at the home of Sadie, Anthony and Jasper. Sadie made a delish Puertoriqueno lasagne, with plantain stuffed inside. We sat on the porch and watched the children play and sing and, in Geni's case, sometimes pee, and it seemed to unfold like a beautiful (if flawed by occasional reminders of body functions) movie. We talked about compost and travel, painting and families. The world continues to offer up fascinating people to meet.

I'll be seeking out something symbolic to do or to connect with in the next few days. I'm struggling over this, foundering over what it should be, maybe something to do with art or some kind of happening. I will have to be somewhere and be receptive so I know that it's right for Jenny and me.

Get on the life rollercoaster

2009-05-18T16:44:00.000-07:00

A day of ups and downs. It began with Geni's teacher encouraging me to come to flag ceremony to see Geni in action, marching to the patriotic song. I show up, only to see Geni firmly placed on the sidelines, not participating, while her classmates march and sing. I felt bad for her, even though she was happily playing with her shoe, because I worry about her being left out of things. She's behind in language and in her motor skills, and I perceived that the teacher might find it easier not to include her. I walked home feeling down, but found my newest green juice lady, which generated some cheer.

I got home and finished my article on Japanese artist Kenichi Yokono for Hi-Fructose, which was a blast. Then, I found out my tutorial "How to Make Out with Pop Rocks" got published, albeit not where I had hoped (I wanted it on Cracked.com, but it's on eHow). Here's the link so that you, too, can start making out with pop rocks.

http://www.ehow.com/how_5024347_make-out-pop-rocks.html

It's actually quite informative, I assure you.

Then, we got to take Geni to the early childhood stimulation center, if that's how it translates to English. This was her first appointment. The psychologist is hoping that she can boost Geni's motor and language skills via her method of rehabilitation. Geni loved the session, and will continue going three times a week.

So Geni's happy, but I can't get over this possible snub. I tried removing myself from the emotion of it, to look just at the pure series of events, but it still seems like she was excluded. She loves Colegio Teizcali, to the point where she waits at the door every morning with her backpack in hand, asking "Maestra? Maestra?" She runs into her classroom without looking back. This is what I tell myself: This is what matters. Her perception of events are more important than mine here, right?

I needn't live her pain when she has had no pain but, the crux of it is, if she's can't express herself to me, how will I know the depth of her feelings? I remember a mother posting on a forum about her silent child. She said, "I long to know his inner world."

We Need a Pitcher Not a Belly Itcher

2009-05-13T11:43:00.001-07:00

I have been feeling way too dependent upon my weekly writing gig, which offers tons of work at mediocre pay. So, I've been trying to branch out.

I do the usual, applying cold through ads, putting in some bids, writing notes to my contacts, but I avoid writing pitches, and I can't figure out why. I have a list of good magazines to pitch, and a ton of ideas, but I've become lazy, I think, with all the work, and the idea of going through the whole pitch-and-get-rejected process seems insurmountable.

I'm stuck in this syndrome of writing for short-term goals, but not looking at the long-term and broadening my client base.

Two months ago, I was on the beach, and found this man selling extraordinary paintings on the street. I interviewed him on the spot, bought a handful of paintings--he was the ideal outsider, visionary artist, taking a traditional Mexican art form and completely reinterpreting it with his visions. His work just jumped out at me, and I wasn't the only one. As I talked to him, almost everyone who passed by stopped to take a look at his work. I took a bunch of pictures and knew I had a story. I assembled a list of alternative art magazines, but the pitch drifts somewhere out of reach. How can that art and the potential article about it keep me up all night with excitement and, by day, elude me because I don't want to write the pitch?

The good news is that I've garnered some excellent gigs in the past couple days, including a quick tutorial on "How to Make Out with Pop Rocks Involved", a review of an art show inspired by monster movies and, my favorite, a piece on Stacy and Clinton of "What Not to Wear". Pop culture paradise.

Somewhere, in here, is a lesson for me, but I'm not ready to learn it.

The Mathematics of Laundry

2009-05-12T08:13:00.000-07:00

With four people in the house, including a grubby preschooler, we have to do a load of laundry about every other day. Laundry in Mexico is interesting, at least my version, because we have no dryer, so everything goes on the clothesline for my over-analysis of whether it has been cleaned to a worthwhile state.

And I am the only one who does laundry--the sole portal through which all filth must pass, which drives me to some puzzling conclusions about what happens with laundry.

I'm not talking about the lost sock syndrome over which so much has been written. It's everything else that winds up on the clothesline. Like the other day, after hanging it all up, I tried adding it all up. Why was it that Genevieve's only piece of clothing drying on the line was her giant green tank top that she wears as a mini-dress, accompanied by eight pairs of underpants? Am I to believe that, over the course of two days, all she wore was a saggy tank top and four pairs of underpants per day? It seems unlikely and uncomfortable.

Then there's Steve who, in this hot weather, seems to enjoy wearing two or three black T-shirts per day, no pants, and an extraordinary number of socks that I do not even bother to match up.

Max is more predictable. Lots and lots of pajamas and shorts, but no shirts. I know his habits, loving to jump into pjs as soon as possible, alternating from this routine only to wrench on his too-small Ninja costume to see if it has magically enlarged to accommodate him in the past week. He, too, seems to wear a lot of underpants, if the clothesline tells no lies.

This is what I am left to wonder, is if the clothesline is just an abstract symbol, representing the chaos theory of our weekly lives, whittled down to the essentials, the socks, the underpants, whereas the embellishments, the hand-knit sweater great grandma made in the sixties, the light-as-dandelion-spores shirt I bought in the market, get sucked into the black hole of the laundry that will never be washed, never worn again. My dirty laundry broadcasts my failures--no, that's too strong of a word--my never-realized intentions. But maybe that's okay? I mean, it's just laundry.

Expat Paranoia Syndrome

2009-05-07T16:04:00.001-07:00

Well, Colegio Teizcali and every other primary school in Mexico has been closed for a couple weeks now, and this may be the cause of my sense of reason tipping.

It was set off a couple nights ago when we got a random phone call at midnight. The phone rang and then beeped, indicating there was an urgent message. This unto itself was strange because very few people know our cell phone number, even fewer people use it, and no one calls us a midnight.

I checked the message and it was a man stating my full name, a long list of letters and numbers (beginning with T-H)and a message that I could not make out, not a word of it, for the life of me. I listened about seven more times, jotting down the random letters and numbers. I caught the word "urgent" and I thought I heard the word "vehicle". There was an address and an insistence that we show up to withdraw ("retirar") something.

I am not a worrier, but my heart was pounding in my ears. I ran upstairs to our terrace shouting, "I think our car's been stolen", but there it was, sitting on the street.

And here is where Expat Paranoia Syndrome sets in. Because I live in a foreign country where a certain amount of daily life remains incomprehensible to me, my mind leaped to many unrealistic conclusions. Someone was about to steal our car! It was a warning.

And then my mind wandered to kidnapping. We had to withdraw money from the branch ("sucursal", they said) because they had our kids. But they didn't, our kids were in the house, asleep. Or were they? I checked. They were. But how long would they be there, snug in their beds? I had Steve check all the locks.

Who knew my full name, my cell phone number, and wanted me to withdraw something urgently? Was someone following my wanderings from Colegio Teizcali down to the Volcanes Friday market, to the cactus juice lady on Martyrs of Cananea Street by the Elvis Tortillas shop and then to my bank? I am a creature of habit, I know, and my rituals are downright predictable to the minute, I suspect.

I laid awake feeling like I was in the movie I had just seen that evening "Get Shorty". You never know when a gangster or a mob boss or an investor and his bodyguard might slip into your living room and turn on "David Letterman", do you? And, in a foreign country, with a message I didn't understand, and no working knowledge of how to call the police via my cell phone (or even knowing if police in Oaxaca are a good thing to call, when most evidence points to the contrary), I felt the only solution was to stay awake and ruminate.

In the morning, I stopped the guy that was delivering water to our house. I handed him my cell phone and asked him to listen to the message, that it was urgent and I was worried. He looked at me seriously, listened for a minute and said, "It's DHL. They have a package for you. You need to withdraw it from their branch."

And, you see, this is why Expat Paranoia Syndrome is so insidious. Because, as far-fetched as my midnight wonderings were, it is also ridiculous that a DHL employee would call me at midnight and leave an urgent message to pick up a magazine.

Our Journey to Ixtlan

2009-05-05T18:07:00.000-07:00

Somehow we've been living in Oaxaca for nearly two years and managed to miss going to the mountains. Sure, there was the time we coaxed our reluctant vocho up the first peak, to get a blast of cool, fresh air, before careening back down to Oaxaca proper.

We decided that, with the swine flu epidemic supposedly raging somewhere just out of reach (maybe in Texas?), we might as well go camping. Now, I'm not a camper. I was a Girl Scout for a couple years, but I was in it for the HoeDowns (and Thin Mints). I don't like sleeping in tents and waking up in cold dirt and a semi-warm shower located across a public campground. And I really have to ignore that "we're getting everything dirty" obsessive streak of panic that runs through me.

Camping near Ixtlan de Juarez, the mountains to the north of Oaxaca City is altogether different. You go to the town center and stroll around until you find a sign about ecotours. You call the numbers on the sign and no one answers. You check your guidebook and call those numbers and get someone. Just not someone who knows what you're talking about when you ask about "hay una cabana disponible para esta noche?"

As you wander aimlessly around the zocalo, chasing after your three-your-old, you see the only open door in the center. It's the office to the ecotour company, randomly open on a Sunday afternoon during a holiday weekend with a flu scare on. You go in and they shrug. "Sure, there's cabins. Just head on over there."

Sure enough, a simple 4.3 kilometers away, after several prominent signs, we found the ecotour campgrounds. We drove down a gravel road, parked, and found ourselves in the midst of a pine forest, not a sight to which I'm accustomed in Oaxaca. It was so...California, down to the overly dry conditions.

It was my kind of camping. Cabins with beds and furniture. There are fireplaces and logs. There are porches for lounging around. Private hot showers (well, hot for two minutes).

We took the kids down a trail that led across a rope bridge to a cave, where we could hear bats squeaking. Then, it was to the ropes course. Max and I rented mountain bikes and careened down to a river where we threw our shoes off and chased tadpoles. We watched trout swimming in the pond before trudging and semi-riding our bikes back up the mountain. We ate fresh Oaxacan cuisine at the lodge and collected pine cones. The next day, Geni and Max tried horseback riding. Geni threw a tantrum when we pulled her off the horse, crying "burro burro burro!"

And all of it about a 40-mile trip from our house. How about that? And I would have thought this an impossible thing for me to say just a week ago, but I look forward to camping again soon. But next time we bring Carolos Quinto chocolate bars, Maria cookies and bon bones for the Mexican version of s'mores. Can't believe I forgot that stuff.

Dia del Nino and My Rant Against Trazzler

2009-04-30T16:52:00.000-07:00

It's strange circumstances, to be sure, but it's Day of the Child in Mexico. We remembered at around noon, so we went off to Chedraui supermarket to buy a cake and celebrate.

So, it might be the cake talking, but I'm in a bad mood. This freaking Trazzler travel website that I hate deeply keeps sending me newsletters and there is no way to unsubscribe. They say you can unsubscribe, but I just get in an endless loop of complaints that won't be registered without my email, which they say is not registered. Then how am I getting this useless, annoying newsletter in the first place?

I originally thought I'd apply to write for Trazzler which, upon reading the fine print, looked like a terrible idea. Very scammy. I read on their forums that some users are beginning to think Trazzler is a scam, too. If not a scam, then Trazzler is at least unethical and annoying, with no contact email addresses and a help forum that won't let me publish my query. With Trazzler, I am like those suckers who got lifetime magazine subscriptions through AOL and could never cancel them, doomed to pay for bad magazines for an eternity. I am Sisyphus pushing that heavy rock of Trazzler spam emails up the hill.

Boo Trazzler!
Trazzler, I do not like you.
Trazzler, I agree with those on the forums who beg to be set free from your spam.

My Neighborhood and Swine Flu

2009-04-28T20:11:00.001-07:00

It's day two of the quarantine or whatever you want to call it. I've had a lot of people writing me, asking what it's like to be in the belly of the beast, though, really, we're more in the knee, somewhat below all the action.

I'll begin by saying we live outside the immediate town center, about a mile or so to the northeast. Here, it's been quiet. A little too quiet. There are far fewer gas trucks blaring their "Oaxaca" song and dragging chains behind them. The old vocho that chugs around with a megaphone on top, announcing "Tortillas! Tortillas!" has not been making its circuit. No such luck with the orange truck, though, Steve's nemesis, that has a tape reeling over and over about fresh oranges from Veracruz, juicy and sweet, fresh for your juice, for your kitchen, from Veracruz. Hardly a nieve ice cream pushcart, announced by a honking horn.

The real absence, though, is the children because, no matter what block I'm on in Oaxaca, from the busiest highway to a random dirt road, there's kids running, backpacks slapping their backs, mommies carrying impossibly big babies (rare to see a stroller or even a baby pack) and the constant laughing, shouting and crying that goes along with all of it.

So I was surprised to find our Tuesday street market on in my neighborhood, full of vendors, but very few customers. The customers that were there were not crowding the prepared food booths as much, but there was still quite a bit of trying on shoes and examining designer knockoff purses. Some vendors and customers wore blue or white face masks, but most did not.

As I walked from here to the west side of the town center yesterday afternoon, about a 45 minute walk, I noticed that, as I approached the tourist part of town, more businesses were open.

I passed the ADO first class bus station and saw a mobile vehicle parked at the doorway, stocked with medical equipment and staffed by people wearing face masks. There was a small satellite dish atop the vehicle, generating, I believe, a wireless signal, because the medical staff had laptops. People were standing at the tables and gathering pamphlets and flyers. Just a few feet away, inside the bus station, the tourist information kiosk was open for business.

There was a big book fair on in Llano Park, with probably five times as many vendors as customers, but that could have been the hour. On a tree was nailed a forlorn paper sign: zumba class was canceled. To think that the only person who bothered to notify people of a closure was the teacher of the outdoor zumba class. Here, too, there was a mobile health vehicle.

I cut through Conzatti Park, where there were no teenagers making out, a major shift in the park demographic. From there, I walked on the outer edge of the grounds of the Santo Domingo cathedral, past the open doors of the Oaxaca Spanish Magic language school. I peered through their courtyard and spied two people semi-dozing on patio chairs--not magic, but not an infernal hell of a pandemic, either.

I arrived at La Biznaga restaurant, where I was meeting friends. The staff all wore face masks. There was only two tables occupied, but one was filled with young Mexican hipsters, drinking cocktails. Only one had a face mask, loosely hanging around his neck.

By the time we left La Biznaga, a couple hours later, the quietness was more noticeable. By 7pm or 8pm, Oaxaca usually wakes up. Stores reopen after siesta, restaurants start filling up, bars open their doors. None of that was happening. It started to feel like...Portland, Oregon, after 9pm, not a late-night kind of town for the most part.

Today was equally mellow, though we snuck out to the park and found a couple kids on swings and two teenagers, skateboarding while wearing face masks. It was so laid-back around here that I was honestly surprised when I found out the WHO raised the alert level to phase 5.

What to do when there's nothing you can do

2009-04-27T18:32:00.000-07:00

Bizarre times, these days, with Mexico closing down all the schools until May 6th due to swine flu. We are nowhere near the major outbreaks, though my friend told me Oaxaca has its one and only case over two weeks ago, in which the person died at the hospital and they shut the whole hospital down. But, since then, nothing that I know of.

Not only are we to keep the kids out of school (and they've only been back one week since their two-week spring break), but we cannot go to the usual kid energy-guzzling places I adore, such as bouncy castle heaven Poing Poing, TerraLandia (Gymboree-ish, but with more challenging stuff), Cinepolis for first run movies, Pochote for old movies, toy stores, the children's library, the English library, Las Brisas swim park, the Hacienda de Santa Marta buffet and play area, the children's area of the Stamp Museum and of the Textile Museum--it has made me realize how many kids' places I'd racked up in my mental itinerary of things to do.

So, I'm digging out the old camp and day care memories, channeling Jenny who was so good of making fun out of thin air plus, sometimes, a little bit of stuff. We started this afternoon by making homemade limeade and squeezing limes, sampling the results in shot glasses and painted gourds.

Tomorrow, I think, will be fort day, with blankets and pillows and stuffed animals camping with us. Perhaps a picnic lunch on the rooftop.

There will be days lazing by the kiddie pool on our terrace and evenings around the warm, cozy DVD player. I've already looked up how to make playdough (if I can just find "crema de tartar" at the market). Perhaps some flashlight games. Build a puppet theater or, my lazy way, a finger puppet theater. Maybe it's time to sketch out a mural for the garage wall. We could plant a garden or at least get rid of dead plants and replace them with some tough cacti. And isn't it time to go through all of the old toys and clothes and make up boxes for donation?

Somewhere, in there, I will get some work done, as well as attempting to apply for a couple gigs to heal the wound of my killed story.

So, it sounds doable here, in blog land, but that doesn't account for the mess and the cranky, the bedtime fight and the homework that is still supposed to get done. Not to mention Geni's long-standing proclivity for flooding rooms. If I can make it through this week without screaming at them (you know, a bark or two is totally acceptable in my book), well, then, that would be startling. Let me make that my benchmark: no screaming. I'll check in and let you know how it's going.

What happens to a story killed?

2009-04-24T17:43:00.000-07:00

Does it dry up
like a Lindsay Lohan in rehab?

Really, it's just sagging like a heavy load right now. And the story just sits there, killed.

I should figure out the way to negate this having happened, like send out 10 pitches and apply for 10 gigs next week.

But, right now, a bad movie on cable will do the trick.

From Strep to Pinotepa in Three Days

2009-04-23T17:33:00.000-07:00

Watching Geni's little throat minute by minute, wondering if the little white dots coating it will be moidered by antibiotics in time for her to strut the streets of Oaxaca tomorrow.

Because the time has come for another calenda, little Geni dressed in the Pinotepa costume of a flowered blouse and flouncy skirt, parading with the 20-some preschools selected from throughout the city. It's firecrackers and showers of candy, cloth-covered globes and cellophane colored lanterns, banners and a live band, the streets closed so tiny children can announce the annual preschool indigenous dance festival, known as Guelaguetza Infantil.

And, if I weren't so tired, maybe I'd be prouder, but Geni sick is not a pleasant person during the nighttime. The only thing that chilled her out was watching YouTube videos of Dana Carvey singing "Chopping Broccoli".

The upside of all the chaos and the sleep deprivation: we found a great pediatrician, perhaps the best ever. I'd write her name if I remembered it. Beatriz Sumero is 50 percent of her name. She's on Murgia street, I believe, half a block to the west of the Alcala. She interviewed me and talked to Geni and slowly, slowly built up Geni's confidence so she could do a thorough checkup. Geni was happy, I was elated. I mean, I didn't have an appointment, and she snuck me in first, ahead of when her 5pm appointment showed (she's only open 5-8pm). No insurance, no problem, the cost out of pocket was 300 pesos, or about 25 bucks and she spent half an hour with us.

She even said my favorite words a doctor can utter: "I hate to prescribe antibiotics". Good things. But, of course, with strep throat we needed to bring in the antibiotics, so let's just get this kicking in so that my Geni can perform at the Guelaguetza. Maybe I have the makings of a stage mother...

Las Oaxaquenas

2009-04-22T09:21:00.000-07:00

I had breakfast with my Oaxaquena posse this morning and I again was struck with what luck I have had making friends in a foreign country, speaking in a foreign language. To be sure, there are huge gaps in my understanding that seem to arise more from cultural differences than linguistic differences, like the look of shock Flor gave me when I treated for her breakfast as a belated gift. Al norte, it would be so easy to insist, "I'm treating!", but here it felt like I had done something terribly strange.

The strangeness aside, though, my friends always shock me with some little bit of information, an insight into their version of contemporary Oaxacan culture, that makes me appreciate them so. For example, they often complain about machismo or women not being able to stand up for themselves in certain situations, and it just goes against this stereotype of the more traditional Mexican woman. They rehearse strategies for speaking with their husbands about touchy subjects, and we all argue about approaches and commiserate.

I walked home feeling elated that they would welcome me and trust me so, but I might also have been fueled by the two cups of coffee I drank, not a typical ritual for me (but necessary because La Geni spent midnight to early morning grumpy with a slight fever and I awoke thinking I could not bear to socialize in Spanish for three hours).

What Oaxaca and just expatriation does to people is of an eternal fascination to me, because I am only starting to understand the magnitude of our decision to sell everything we own and live in Mexico. For me, it was a test sort of, a wondering, if I could really live somewhere foreign and feel like it was home, especially in regard to forging new friendships, something which rarely comes easy to me. It's never smooth but, in some ways, foreign friendships can be more freeing, because you have to let go of so much of your worries and your past, unless you have the time and the grammar to adequately express it all.

Festivus!

2009-04-21T17:54:00.000-07:00

Well, the Semana Santa silent processional with crucified Jesus no sooner cleared town than we had an alebrije and a black pottery festival in the appropriate villages. Having gotten a chunk of freelance work, I finally bought some bigger pieces of artesania, like a hand-painted alebrije-style chair for Genevieve and an intricate necklace of black pottery beads wrapped in silver wire.

Next up was the festival of the Tercera Raiz, a festival of the culture of black Oaxacans. There was live dance and music in the public plazas, including a band with percussion played on the giant jawbone of a horse or a cow.

After the spring break crush of tourists cleared out, I thought the hype might die down a bit, but then I got word of the CuentaCuentos festival, a series of storytelling events around the centro. I took Max to the stately library building with its massive courtyard and creeping vine giant plants and we heard stories by Peruvian and Brazilian storytellers. I was excited because of my sister Jenny's illustrious career as a folklorist, performance artist, storyteller and front porch gossiper, but I also worried that Max might feel too old for the scene which was full of little ones.

I needn't have worried. The performers unrolled these beautiful story quilts and, lo and behold, they were three-dimensional, with pockets and puffy parts hiding and holding props, figures and all sorts of surprises. Max was entranced and we stayed until the end. I imagined Jenny sitting with us, taking mental notes, because she would want to discuss every little thing later on the living room couch. Which is where I sit now, having the conversation with my blog, hoping that at least one little detail of the evening I experienced would resonate with her.

Coming soon are the Humanitas Festival, celebrating the cultures of the Mixteca, Puebla and...Spain?...and the Guelaguetza Infantil children's folk dance festival, in which Genevieve and her classmates from Colegio Teizcali are supposed to participate but Geni may choose instead to burst into tears or stand like a deer in the headlights.

And, if you're in town, do not forget Steve's annual mole enchilada party this Sunday at 3pm, a great new Oaxacan tradition.

Your Year-Round Film Festival

2009-04-20T16:36:00.000-07:00

I'm reading the book Julie & Julia which, upon my Googling the title, has come to my attention that it was also made into a movie. So I feel a little unoriginal reading it now, with it being made by Nora Ephron and Julia Roberts being in it but I can be excused because I really have not gone to movies much since having children. Sometimes I fantasize a life of going to a different movie every night, like my dad does (happily taking advantage of his senior discount).

The movies I see now tend toward the animated variety which, in some cases, is all right, as in the case of the surprisingly semi-feminist "Monsters vs. Aliens" which kicks Disney's ass in the possibilities for skinny pretty girls department. Sometimes the movies are not quite so great, like "The Other Egg Movie and a Chicken" a made-in-Mexico "children's" movie that makes much of the fact that egg is also used as a metaphor for private parts. Ah, the double entendre. These are the films of Cinepolis, Oaxaca's version of the mall multiplex, complete with overpriced popcorn and surprisingly good Nutella crepes.

Other movie possibilities are at Pochote cinema, the free art theater under the aqueducts that I love so dearly. Not all films are that comprehensible to me there, but the experience is beautiful. Pochote figures into my "someday a nightly movie" fantasy.

There's cable, too, which we got for the first time in our lives. Cable seems to favor all of these violent action films I've never heard of that always have either a guy shooting someone or a woman about to be attacked. Not my favorite themes.

And then there's la pirata. Ah, the bootleg DVDs, it's a big, big deal down here. People set up stands full of them, and there's a whole routine for buying them. You have the vendor bring up the DVD menu on a little TV or player in the booth. You go through the menu and a couple scenes to make sure the quality is OK and, if it's important, that there is an English option. Very recent movies follow the joke on "Seinfeld", having been filmed directly in the theater, with people passing by the screen, audience laughter, popcorn spilling, the whole enchilada.

Imagine my delight last week when we happened upon reels upon reels of classic "Batman" episodes from the '70s. But, as often happens when we try to actually buy things in Mexico, no one could figure out what the price should be. They finally guessed at a price and it was far too high for our meager budget, so we passed. Little did I know Max would then spot "The Egg Movie" part one, without the chicken, and forced us to buy that for him.

Someday, a movie every night, and no eggs as stars.

I'll take the bus this time

2009-03-24T19:33:00.000-07:00

I think that's how the Jonathan Richman song goes, about the delights of bus travel. But try convincing my bourgeois son Max that a bus is a better way to go than a taxi. He likes the directness of taxis, but it's the things off your route that are always the most promising.

I was on the Oaxaca city bus, one of my favorites because it had been painted a lurid red through the interior which went great with the purple tinted windows. A guy got on and gave the driver a look. I'd seen that look before. It's this quick look of asking permission, to which the drivers typically nod.

When he got on, I could see he had a large display shelf slung around his neck. He was selling pens. But not any pens--Papermates. He pronounced each syllable Spanish phonetically, like pah-pare-mah-tay. He was working those Papermates, slashing ink on a little pad of paper and showing the results. And then, yes, he pushed the Papermate and it became a flashlight, not with any power to illuminate anything per se, but with a glowing tip.

The passengers seemed noncommittal. But I am always fooled by Mexicans' stony stares. There is never a discussion, not even a rummaging for change. They just suddenly wave their 10 peso coins in the air and grab at the item for sale. Which they did. They were going nuts for the Papermates! And he hadn't even gotten to the free gift. Highlighter pens. The whole bundle was going for under a buck, including the ineffective flashlight pen.

The women across from me were trying out their new pens. They called the vendor over. There was a problem, you see, that the flashlight wasn't shining brightly. He switched theirs and then, they couldn't help themselves, they bought another set.

I was happy to see my stop coming because the excitement had me tempted to score some Papermates and, really, I just did not need them.

As I got off the bus, two clowns got on. Who knows what they were selling.

Jenny Makofsky the shining star

2009-02-17T20:42:00.000-08:00

She knew all the words to the theme song of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air".
She argued based on reviews of books she hadn't read.
She played smackdown wrestling with Max. He always won.
She worried about him losing affection for his auntie.
She spent a lot of money on clothing and a lot of time on finding clothing bargains.
Movies. Once, we saw a crummy movie about to start on television (it was "Miss Congeniality"), and we gasped together in excitement.
No coffee, not since the crying at the museum line incident.
She loved sweets and snacks.
She read the ends of books first, so the suspense would not override her enjoyment of the story.
She read reviews of movies before seeing the movies, and liked spoilers.
She carried bags jammed with stuff and papers. When she filled a bag, she set it in her room and started another one.
When she was little, she'd play side 2 (I think) of the "Robin Hood" record over and over again.
Later it was David Bowie, The Doors and The Beatles.
Later it was Hole and Nirvana.
In elementary school, she scored higher on the ESP test than I did. She could read minds!
She wanted to hear your version of that jump rope rhyme or counting-out game, jotting down each word and comparing it with those of other people.
She wanted the details of that story, please.
She had humorous dreams integrating pop culture figures.
She once told Meg and I the entire plot of a "Mr. Belvedere" episode as we awaited the beginning of the Shakespeare in the park production.
She loved her eating club. They always over-ordered on the plantains.
She was a most loyal, sentimental friend, who stuck up for someone when others would not.
She collected stationery, black boots, alebrijes and rubber chickens.
She was my best friend, my social outlet and my shared memory. It saved me a lot of effort.
She was a love, and many people called her soulmate.
Jenny Makofsky, my beautiful sister, to the stars through difficulties. She took it all too far, but boy could she play guitar.

I found an old story of Jenny's

2009-02-12T18:28:00.000-08:00

Jenny loved jokes. As a child, she checked out compendiums of old jokes, read them repeatedly, and memorized them so that she could tell them. I found this great story she wrote about jokes and thought I would share it.

Only When I Laugh

These days, it's hard to think about Woody Allen without getting creeped out. But I remember before he was creepy, before he married his stepdaughter. When he just seemed funny. Annie Hall was my favorite movie in those days. I liked the way he began and ended the movie with jokes. He starts with the one about the two women in the Catskills, remember? You know, they're sitting around, kvetching about the food, and one of them says, "Isn't the food terrible here?" And the other one says, "Yes, and such small portions!" He goes on to say -- that's what life is like. It's full of pain and misery and heartache and loss. And it's also much too short. Such small portions! I think sometimes about what the opening joke would be for the movie of my life. I think a lot about jokes, even though I know that it isn't always a good idea to do so. For example, there's a joke that one of my middle-school students told me once. It goes like this: How is a giraffe like a turtle? They both have long necks. Except for the turtle.

I told this joke to my sister and she said, "You know, a turtle does have kind of a long neck." "You're thinking about the joke too much," I said, "it doesn't work if you think about it too much."

But even though I know this -- that it's dangerous to think about jokes too much, because then they stop being funny -- I still think about jokes all the time. I always have. When I was a kid, I would check joke books out of the library, huge treasuries of jokes with names like "Bennet Cerf's Cavalcade of Laughs." And I would study these books,and analyze them, as if they were the Talmud. One joke that confounded me for years was this one: A man walks into a coffee shop and says to the waitress, "I'd like a cup of coffee, with no cream." She answers, "We're out of cream, but I can give it to you without milk."

God, this was baffling to me. I couldn't for the life of me make sense of it. It was like some kind of freaking zen koan. I asked my mother to explain it, but she never could -- to my satisfaction. Why, if there was no cream, was there even a problem? Maybe this should be my opening joke for the movie of my life. I could explain -- that's what life is like. People are always offering you solutions that have nothing to do with your problems.

But is that really how I feel, about life? In my life, and in my jokes, I am more frequently drawn to wordplay. My third grade students like to tell me this joke: Why is 6 afraid of 7? Because 7, 8, 9. I always answer back: Have you heard about the new corduroy pillows? They're making headlines!

But neither of these jokes really work as the definitive opening joke for the movie of my life. Actually, the corduroy pillows one doesn't even work as a joke for third graders. I always get the quiet stare in response. I can almost hear them thinking, "Headlines? What is she talking about?"

There is no heckler as harsh as a third grader when your jokes don't measure up.

Except a 6th grader. I told a group of 6th graders this joke: Have you heard about the new restaurant on the moon? Great food, but no atmosphere! When they didn't laugh, I said, "Oh, maybe you didn't understand that joke." "No, we understood it," they said. Ouch. That hurt.

Maybe you think that, because I am a lifelong teller of jokes, this is the response I fear the most. The quiet stare. The steely look. But actually, when I told jokes as a kid, after carefully memorizing those quips from "The Omnibus of Fun," or whatever other joke book I'd checked out, my most dreaded response was not silence, but laughter. I would stand in front of my family, reciting joke after joke, expecting -- what? Tears? Applause? I'm not sure. But if they dared to laugh at me, I would become enraged.

Once, after they laughed at one of my stand-up routines, I was so furious with them that I sequestered myself in the bathroom for a half-hour. When my mother came to check on me, she found me sitting on the cold linoleum floor, tearing up the toilet paper piece by piece, exacting my terrible revenge on all of them.

Considering this behavior, maybe the right joke to open the movie of my life would be this famous one: There is a man who has been shot through with bows and arrows; arrows are just sticking out of his back. And someone sees him and says, "My god, doesn't that hurt?" And the guy with the arrows says, "Only when I laugh."

MY own vignette, about not wanting my family to laugh at me, reverses the meaning of that joke. The joke itself begs the question, Why would a guy all shot up with arrows be laughing? Why would he laugh, when he hurts? But in my case, the question is, why should it hurt, for them to laugh?

I outgrew that reaction, of course. Later on, I figured out that it was good to be the one that people laughed at. See: it only hurts when you don't laugh. Maybe that is the clue to my opening joke. I want my joke to say, "Life is absurd; it's hilarious; just laugh at it. It only hurts when you don't laugh."

Of course, sometimes there is pain. And what do you do abou this? What if there is heartbreak? Well, if there's heartbreak, then maybe you sculpt your broken heart into a Marcel Duchamp sculpture. Maybe you push at it and prod it until it reels in its own absurdity. How can you not laugh at pop art?

And maybe there is loss (there's bound to be loss). And if there's loss, then maybe you turn it into a song, a song that makes you smile every time you sing it, because it's so damn funny. Just listen to the difference between these two songs: (singing)

On top of old smokey
all covered with snow
I lost my true lover
For courtin too slow.

As sure as the dewdrops
Fall on the green corn
Last night he was with me
Tonight he is gone

And then there is this version:
On top of spaghetti
all covered with cheese
I lost my poor meatball
when somebody sneezed

Humberto Batista's strange, beautiful assemblages

2009-01-29T19:30:00.000-08:00

I recently wrote an article on "The Wild Visions of Oaxaca's Painters" which included a section devoted to my friend and great artist Humberto Batista.

We bought our beautiful papaya, pear, and Olmec head painting, "Viva la Raza" from Humberto. He has also been working on assemblages that incorporate antiques, found items and bits of random hardware and junk shop kinds of things, and it has this beautiful nostalgic quality. They look like totems or talisman.

Humberto is fascinated by the theme of "el nahual y la muerte", which is essentially the notion of human beings containing an animal being or soul that is wild and joyful, and how that concept is reconciled with the inevitability of death.

I'll post pictures of his assemblages soon.

Rising, Like Phoenix, From the Ashes

2009-01-16T18:31:00.000-08:00

It was about 30 minutes out of Los Angeles when the car windows stopped working. And the fuel gauge, temperature gauge, air conditioner and the tiny little fan that you never think about but is actually quite important that is hidden inside your vent. And the seat belts in the front.

But I wanted to get out of California before we got caught in some traffic jam, so we sped on until Max threatened to pee in the car.

We made Phoenix our goal. A big city, lots of cheap motels on the outskirts, an easy spot to find dinner. We jammed on with our broken car. At a truck stop, we stopped to buy fuses, but they only had some of what we needed. Steve was determined to conduct a full fuse makeover to see if the various problems would go away, so he got what they had and we moved on, the seat belts just hanging there lifelessly in front of us, as if to mock us about the fixer ticket we were sure to get.

Phoenix is far, so we stopped at rest stops and raced each other to the vending machines and back again. Before kids, I was never a rest stop person, I was like Calvin Trillan in that essay Jenny read me, putting the car in neutral at red lights and running to switch drivers, all in the name of making "good time". There is no good time with children. But good times, yes! Like Geni singing to us from the car seat or Max spending two hours muttering to himself in an alien voice, lost, somewhere.

It turns out Phoenix does not exist. I don't understand it. We looked and looked for it, we even exited at a sign that seemed to imply Phoenix, but it wasn't, it was just an empty business park, like a deserted movie set for the movie "Phoenix". Is Phoenix an empty business park?

We wound up on an empty, dark street way far from the freeway, with no restaurant in sight and the kids crying from hunger. In the distance, like a beacon, I saw a neon sign with a red K. If I hadn't seen "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" in college (maybe thrice, even), I would not have known what I was seeing: Circle K. We pulled up, bought crap, had a picnic on the cold car hood in the dark while some serious street action rolled around us in the parking lot. I went back in to ask the cashier that all important question: "Where are we?"

Phoenix.

Tomorrow: Tumbling tumbleweeds

On and on and on the road

2009-01-15T17:54:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me by day three of our infinite road trip from California to Oaxaca, Mexico, that I had never done anything like this before with my children or even with Steve. Our longest car trips had been a couple days to Portland or Seattle and then back to Oakland. I watched them sleeping in their hotel beds and wondered what on earth I had been thinking to not only agree to this road trip, but to actually be the person who thought it up, convinced others, and planned it. No one to blame but myself.

I learned things about Steve that before, I had only suspected: When in doubt, he drives fast, perhaps to flee a situation. He's not the car-singing, car-game type. He forgets to check the price of that three-dollar bottle of water at the supermart. He not only hates papaya, but he believes the person who deigned to serve it to him did so with malice. Steve was also full of pleasant surprises, thankfully, like when he jammed his booty into the back seat as I screamed along at 80 mph, so he could set up the laptop and catch a little “Scooby Doo” with the kids. Or how, when we would run out of cash, he would magically pull a $20 out of his pocket. He also guarded our possessions with his life, hauling a guitar, mandolin, two laptops, mountains of stuffed animals, clothes, and Hanukkah presents into room after room and out again.

Day 1 was the ride to Los Angeles, where we were full of hope, anticipation, clean laundry and visions of Disneyland dancing in our heads. We arrived at the evil Hyatt Regency Orange, my Priceline “bargain” which is lovely but is staffed by people as mean as I remember them being six years ago when Jenny and I were there. I think the beautiful suite, bargain price, and free shuttle to D-land made up for the visible sneer on the receptionist's face when she saw I was a “third party payer”, i.e. Priceline customer. But, let's face it, I was going to have a great time no matter how disappointed she was with me, so it was time to move on.

Meggie met us at the hotel, greeting me with, “Oh my god, they are so rude here!” Then we set off to buy tix for the next day and to admire the rocking Tokidoki selection of items at the Vault store (I was doubly pleased because I just got an assignment to write about Tokidoki for a fashion magazine). We also toured the Rainforest Cafe like goggle-eyed babes in the woods, oohing and aahing over their beautiful assortment of plastic animals.

We hit D-land at 8am the next day, maps and intricately-drawn plans in hand about how to run to the first ride and how to itinerize the rest of the day so we broke what I like to call The 20-Ride Barrier. I do not call a trip to the D. successful unless we get in 20 rides, ten of which should be before lunch. With little kids, it was more challenging, but luckily there is the Fast Pass system where you get an appointment to wait in a shorter line, so I made my personal goal easily. Max hung with the scene for 15 hours straight, until I begged for mercy. It was 11pm, misting, cold, and Space Mountain was still advertising a wait of 75 minutes, so we hit the gift shop to score Geni a Peter Pan action figure set and then hobbled to the hotel shuttle stop where Max huddled shivering on a concrete bench and considered crying but then decided to reminisce about Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, one of my favorite rides as well. I mean, you go to hell, with a shimmering devil and all.

Tomorrow: Forcing my kids to eat dinner at the Circle K mini mart in Phoenix.

Oaxaca Reads My Mind

2009-01-11T20:22:00.000-08:00

Last July, when we came back to Oaxaca after visiting family in the United States, my adopted city felt like an acquaintance who you run into on the street and to whom you can't think up anything to say. This time, returning to Oaxaca feels like arriving at the place I chose.

My first day back, the city keeps reading my mind..It began this morning, when the house was just a mess from construction workers. I called Angelina to babysit (because we all needed a break from each other after 8 days on the road together) and she told me her sister-in-law could come as well to clean up the place. Shortly after, they arrived with the construction worker who set to finishing our rooftop garden with palapa roof.

This left me the chance to work, so I packed up my laptop and walked to the center of town. There lies Cafe Brujula, which I believe translates to the witchcraft cafe, home to what may be Oaxaca's only chai. Unfortunately, it is also carb heaven/carb hell depending on your perspective. I found myself desperately wishing for a fruit plate to offset my weakness for their bagels and such. There appeared on the corner, across from the cafe, a woman selling a tray of mixed fresh fruit which I got with the usual lime and chili.

Inside, the wireless connection was great, an art show was on and the chai perfect. I set to writing. After a couple hours, I headed out to Llano Park to meet Steve, Max and Geni, but I saw a new gallery on Calle Juarez, so I popped in. While I was looking at the paintings, the gallery curator said, “You know there's an installation.” This is one of my all-time favorite phrases. Jenny, Megan and I often traveled hours to hit art installations, like the funky junky Michael McMillan environments made of trash and old belongings, or the room-sized Voudoun altar at Baltimore's Museum of Visionary Art.

This one was modest in comparison. It was set in a series of adobe mud rooms, in the dark. As you walked through, slowly these shrine box apparitions of wax embedded with remnants glowed to life and then faded, while some sort of melancholy music played. I became overcome with my great fortune and decided to feel a little sad about how lucky the morning had been, like my experience of Oaxaca is a work of heartbreaking beauty.

RIP Oscar Grant

2009-01-08T19:55:00.001-08:00

My heart is breaking for Oscar Grant, the African-American man shot by a white BART transit cop this week. He was the father of a 4-year-old girl. He's the age that my first group of elementary students that I ever taught would be right now.

City Vs. Country

2008-12-02T10:01:00.000-08:00

Jenny loved the Jonathan Richman song "City Vs. Country":
I want to live close to downtown to be near my friends
I want to be close to them,
And still be out by the trees and the wind
Having both will be hard to find I'm sure,
But then ain't that the way of the world,
I want the city but I want the country too.
I want to be with my friends by the fire and the starlight
But I want music, music in my life
Yes, I want a bar hopping music scene
And I want to pick from ten or fifteen
I want the city but I want the country too.
My mind is quiet, when my thoughts are slow
I stop to learn what I been wantin' to know
I need to live in the ancient world
If I'm gonna do what I want to do
I want the city but I want the country too
I'll never have both moon and sun
But one never knows, does one?
I want the city but I want the country too.

She had the same love that JoJo does for both. But I think she might have leaned more toward the country. She told me she would like to live in the roots of the trees at Redwood Regional park.

Or amongst the Anasazi cave dwellings.

Somewhere in a cave littered with petroglyphs, where she could watch the moon change.

Ziggy Played Guitar

2008-11-27T12:02:00.000-08:00

This video was a bone of contention between Jenny and I.

I was always trying to get Jenny to admit that Bauhaus' version of "Ziggy Stardust" was better than the David Bowie original.

I finally got her to admit, at least, that it was louder. And, for me, louder is better.

Jenny always preferred Bowie, The Doors, The Beatles to my Dead Kennedys and Bauhaus (not to mention the bands I'm less proud of having liked, such as Iron Maiden, Def Leppard--what was I thinking?)

Housekeeping

2008-11-26T07:18:00.000-08:00

One book Jenny loved was "Housekeeping", by Marilynne Robinson. We first read it when we were in a book group featuring women authors.

The book affected Jenny so deeply that she bought a copy whenever she saw it, on the premise that she might give it to someone as a gift or require an extra reference copy. This meant we had quite a few "Housekeeping"s sitting around the house.

The book might be too sad for me to read now, because it's about sisters, but I do remember one of Jenny's favorite passages that she referenced in a performance piece. The sisters, I think, are reminiscing about a beautiful pocket watch that, even as they hold it, fills them with longing for the pocket watch. Then, Robinson cites a poem by Basho:

even while in Kyoto
when I hear the cuckoo sing
I long for Kyoto

A bloggy find

2008-11-20T09:03:00.000-08:00

Whilst researching how to build a tiki bar (for an article, not for real life...though I should add that work soon re-commences on our rooftop palapa hut and garden area), I ran into a lovely blog:

Junkyard Clubhouse

Now I am a dedicated anti-consumerist, and rarely feel the need to identify with anything considered stylish or supposedly necessary, but when met with the raw beauty and allure of the Lego Halloween set discussed in this blog, I was tempted. How to resist a Lego coffin and a ghost in chains?

The Miracle Drug

2008-11-19T18:32:00.000-08:00

The first year we lived in Oaxaca, I was befuddled by the absence of all my favorite home and alternative remedies. I love zinc and airborne and certain vitamins that I just could not find.

The second year living here, I have developed newfound love for Oaxaca's home and alternative remedies. I take Una de Gato to fight a recurrence of cancer. I take SimiImmune (from Dr. Simi!) for everything. I love sal de uvas--grape salt--for tummy stuff. And then there's Vitacilina.

Vitacilina is one of those things I started out mocking. I was over at a friend's house and she saw the bloody gash on Max's arm from when he put his arm through the window at school. She scolded me, "Aren't you putting Vitacilina on that?" Well, I would if I knew what it was.

She ran and procured a tube of it from her medicine cabinet. It was a small green and white tube and inside, was, I could swear, just plain old Vaseline Petroleum Jelly, the gross yellow color and the haunting yuck of petroleum products bringing me back to my Nana's bathroom where she had some scrungy old jar of it on the counter, covered in the dust of time and baby powder.

Vitacilina. Well, why not? When in Mexico...

Max's arm healed up, and we had the remainder of the tube my friend, Gabi, had given to me. Geni had diaper rash, so we splooged on some of it. And then there was the bug bites Steve got on his ankle. I had itchy legs from the cold weather snap (yes, folks, it dipped below a high of 75). Steve got a little rash on his back, or sunburn. I had a scar from when I cracked my head on the tile floor.

And so we find ourselves buying more and more Vitacilina. I have grown to appreciate it almost as much as those pharmacists who have tile murals dedicated to its image plastered on the outside wall of their shops. There it is, in nine square tiles, a beaming giant tube of Vitacilina, with the pharmacy's entire exterior often painted a complementary color as if to say...this Vitacilina, this is what we are about.

I understand the seductive power of Vitacilina when I find myself reassuring Max, "Don't worry, we'll put some Vitacilina on it." Mothers everywhere in Mexico are midnight witch doctors, rubbing Vitacilina on everything from blisters to bites, reminding their children that soon, so soon, everything will be better, because Vitacilina has this mystical power to carry all their woes and worries away.

Cult of Popularity

2008-11-11T12:03:00.000-08:00

I've been researching cults for an article and I was fascinated by one of the conditions that is necessary to create thought control:

Put forth a closed system of logic and an authoritarian structure that permits no feedback and refuses to be modified except by leadership approval or executive order. The group has a top-down, pyramid structure. The leaders must have verbal ways of never losing.

This concept, to a T, was applied in my Open Court training program for Oakland public schools. It is so challenging to capture the evil of Open Court but, in essence, it was a scripted reading curriculum that was about eradicating critical thinking in favor of the "drill and kill" approach to teaching students, in which they had to repeat finite, decontextualized bits of information ad infinitum.

The truly fascinating, horrible thing about Open Court were the trainings to which I was forced to succumb. They were at the Oakland Airport Hilton and they were as scripted as the curriculum. We were not permitted to argue Open Court's merits, or lack thereof, and were essentially directed to repeat the crappy information, just as we were instructed to do for our students.

And then there was a catered lunch, and back for more horrible thought control. I always told me students, "I am presenting this information because I have to, not because I believe in it. We will get through it quickly and then move on to what really matters." But what was I really modeling there, I always wondered. That we must swallow what we are given publicly and wage our revolution privately? That we as students and teachers ultimately have no power and have to follow the ill-advised directions of our supposed superiors? That our own voices and thoughts are to be mistrusted as somehow being less?

Someday, Open Court will be revealed for what it is: a curriculum that hates the poor, hates people of color and, most of all, hates individual voice and thought, just like cult leaders do.

I Don't Mind the Gap

2008-11-06T06:55:00.000-08:00

The language barrier is one aspect of living in Oaxaca that must be overcome. But since I can handle some street Spanish and academic Spanish, I find the culture gaps more challenging and fascinating.

Yesterday, Geni's teacher at Colegio Teizcali came to me after school. "She doesn't eat her lunch."

"No?"

"No. So I have made a list of the foods she likes."

This was so incredibly kind! I do really love Geni's teacher and how she looks after every little thing. I took the list and read it: "Jello. Marshmallows. Chocolate." I looked at the teacher. "Thank you so much, maestra. But don't these all have a lot of sugar?"

She nodded. "Yes. Maybe just send Jello."

Can you imagine how ecstatic my children would be to get lunches of Jello, marshmallows and chocolate?

Obama Obama Obama

2008-11-05T07:24:00.000-08:00

My head just keeps saying "Obama" to me over and over again. I did not think my country could pull this off.

I have to admit, I have the tendency to hang my head in shame whilst making my rounds in Oaxaca, what with my representing the land of take and take some more. While I would never say I am proud of being an American or proud of my country, since the election results, I felt some of that shame wash away from me.

A Oaxacan friend said, "This is the revolution."

Max said, "Maybe the teacher won't keep saying how bad the United States is."

Our friend, Dave, who lives in Kenya wrote, "Kenyans have named tomorrow a national holiday."

And I flashed on a moment, a decade ago, of me standing in front of my fourth grade class. I was teaching them about Malcolm X, because I wanted them to talk about him in conjunction with Martin Luther King, Jr. They sat in front of me, African-American and Latino, and I desperately wanted to think that their vision, their voices could somehow be a part of what happens to the United States. And I wanted it to happen by any means necessary.

Never did I dare to hope that in my lifetime my country could make this kind of a turnaround. And if it can do it once, it can do it again.

Go Obama! Let's get on with it!

Art House

2008-10-20T19:44:00.000-07:00

I posted a picture of our new painting on my Mexican Pop Spot blog, but I wanted to post this one here, showing Maxito in his lucha libre mask and Superman pjs. It's just a little strange and melancholy.

Walking Home

2008-10-16T10:59:00.000-07:00

One of the great joys of my life here in Oaxaca is that I get to take Maxito and Geni to school every day and then walk home. We live on the fringe of the absolute edge of the center of town, right before it gives way to a giant grass-filled ravine. I seem to discover a new route home every time, by accident, because I have no sense of direction. I have found:

The neighborhood of Infonavit, where there are more pedestrian alleyways than roads, with names like Walkway of the Pilots and Walkway of the Teachers. Sometimes I enter the alleyway labyrinthe and find little shops and, once, an outdoor church (on Walkway of the Secretaries).

A street I like to walk on, though it's an indirect route: Virgins of the Volcano.

A little green pasture where someone, upon occasion, places a tiny fence and lets the sheep and goats go grazing, right on the street corner.

The streets filled with mototaxis, which are built up, three-wheeler motorcyle taxis that cost 5 pesos per rider, with a discount for kids. When the vocho fails us, we go moto. Most mototaxistas decorate their motos with bumper stickers and nicknames like "The Little Devil" and "The Bad One". Sort of a bastardized version of the dashboard shrines on buses.

This corner, where men gather. They always say something to me right after I pass, and I can never figure out what it is. We drove by their corner the other afternoon, and I saw why they migrate there without fail. They play dominos.