Humberto Batista's strange, beautiful assemblages

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

A New Hit

Every once in a while, I go to Google and do a search on "Jenny Makofsky" and "Jennifer Makofsky" to see what I get. I'm delighted to have found a new hit. Jenny is apparently cited in this wonderful-sounding book. Somehow the author got information about Jenny's extensive research on jumprope rhymes.

Jenny wanted to write a thesis or book on jumprope rhymes, counting out rhymes, and general street folklore. She deeply believed in the power and voice of folk culture. She interviewed and taped her students, my students, my mom's students, and friends' students chanting out rhymes and arguing over the variations. I think I kept Jenny's research on the subject. She would be delighted to hear the rhymes Max and Geni are learning in Mexico.

Come Together, Right Now

The vocho is fixed and, for once, the mechanic did not come back with a bottomless pit of things wrong with the car. How cool to have a mechanic we like that works on our block.

I just got another group of articles approved, so I'll be busy writing about Day of the Dead, Oaxacan chocolate, and, yes, "Desperate Housewives" this week. Should be interesting.

With the car and the writing both going well, I feel like things are just about...right. I almost hesitate to say it, for fear I'll jinx it. I'd like it if these articles paid better--good, there's a complaint! Aha, another problem: Geni has a cough, though it's getting better.

I am really thinking Obama could win this, but is that just a perspective from someone who lives out of the country and can indulge in wishful thinking without too much reality getting in the way?

We bought a great surreal painting by our friend Humberto Batista. There is a papaya and a pear and a massive Olmec head statue, against a flat blue horizon. I'll post a picture soon.

Max wants to be a pumpkin for Halloween. I keep trying to persuade him to be a devil or a skeleton, because these are the two costumes that are traditional to Mexico and its comparsa ritual, which is like a manic dance parade where everyone wears one of these two outfits. Geni will of course be the devil.

Naughtiness on Parade

Traviesa. It's a big word in Mexico, and it's a word we use here, in the house, and at school, a lot. It means mischievous, though you can also use it as a noun, I think, as in "What a scamp!"

Why do we use it so much?

Right here.
Do you see that little one in the lower right-hand corner? The one making the mad dash down the hill before she veers for the middle of the street? Meet Genevieve at three years old, just as out of control as she was at two, but now with greater speed and ability.

Yesterday, when I picked her up at preschool, the teacher apologized. "She has no socks on."

I asked, "Why?"

"She got them wet."

Right at that moment, I could tell Geni's teacher was trying to cover for Geni. The jig was up. "What did she do?"

"She and her friend Diegito snuck over to the water jug and pulled down the tap. They both got all wet."

"Oh, teacher, I'm sorry. She's so traviesa."

"No, it's good. She's learning."

I didn't have the heart to tell the teacher that Geni has already mastered the naughtiness-with-water curriculum pretty thoroughly. At home, she waits for her opportunity to run in to the shower and turn it on full blast, or to sneak into the kitchen and upend water glasses on the counter.

What's next, Geni?

A Find?

Last weekend, we headed out to Tlacolula to the Sunday tianguis. It's a huge, rambling outdoor market that frames their stunning church and its courtyard. We braved many a tope bump in the road to get there and check out the offerings.

My first sight was a little boy walking his goats on a leash as if they were puppies. I can imagine the fate of those goats, and loved them dearly as they kind of bleated/sang while trotting down the street.

The market was in its early stages, which is good for many reasons. Less crowded, a relaxed pace, not getting pushed to the side, the vendors are not as pushy yet and, when you purchase, they kiss the coin and cross themselves because it's the first sale of the day. As did the indigenous woman wrapped in rebozos when I bought ten boxes of matches for ten pesos.

In a random corner, there was a woman without a stall, just a giant garbage bag. She was announcing she had shirts for 25 pesos, or $2.50. Well, all right. I stopped and had a look. They were your basic t-shirts you'd see on the endcaps at Target for $9.99 or something. I grabbed one in that ethereal light green color that I keep buying in an attempt to replicate a t-shirt I had in the early 1990s and can never seem to find again. It may be because that t-shirt was not truly light green, but rather the lightest lemon yellow with a hint of green, but I keep trying nonetheless.

And then I saw it. An indigo shirt with a yellow pattern. The pattern was wild, like some combination of an Indian or Mayan design, blended with flowers, giving this overall effect of like a bubbly paisley. I'd never seen anything like it before, and here it was for $2.50. Sure, I didn't like the little pockets or the tight little piping on the sleeves, but that pattern! I could paint it on a canvas or something. So, I snapped it up. Such a find. Upon bringing it home and taking the shirt out so to admire it, I found the origin of my mysterious pattern. The shirt was covered in the faintest outlines of Tweety Bird. I bought a shirt covered in abstracted Tweety Birds. Someday I'll post a picture of it here so you can laugh and laugh at me.

Abastos with Insiders

This morning, I went with my buddies Liz, Nina, and Miguel to the Central de Abastos. This is the main city market that I've been to many times, but it was only the second time I've been there with a Oaxaquena. And that makes a huge difference. Rather than do the unending circle of the lost white girl, past the shoes then the meat, the shoes and meat (it's like in the movie "European Vacation", when Chevy Chase says, "Look kids, Big Ben. Parliament. Look kids, Big Ben. Parliament" ad infinitum), I had Liz and Miguel to lead us straight to what we needed.

You say you need pinatas. Bam! 50 pesos, man. Candies in bulk for the pinatas? In moments, Nina was hooked up. A little apron for Geni for painting? Here's the section with stall after stall of embroidered aprons ("Too expensive," clicked Liz, making that little slightly disapproving sound with her tongue) for 45 pesos.

Bananas, art tables, free soda samples, mandarinas--everything we needed, we got. But the stumper has always been plates. Liz and I had been two weeks ago, and no one sold plates, just mountains of bowls and cups. Plastic plates, there's a ton of them, but nothing in beautiful ceramic. And then we went to a friend's house and she had these great ceramic plates. Liz jumped on our friend, "Where? How much?" Our friend drew us a map of how to find the stall in Abastos and we set off. Turn left at Shalom furniture store, duck under the tarps, and, yes, there were the plates. Dark blue painted flowers on white ceramic. I was so happy. "How much?" I asked. When the lady said 55 pesos for the big ones and 25 pesos for the little ones, I steeled myself. Liz clicked her tongue. But I jumped in regardless and came home with plates. Steve asked me, "Why didn't you buy more?" but, honestly, I had to risk the wrath of Liz to buy the five I came home with!

And I did get a discount in the end, the other benefit of going to Abastos with a Oaxaquena.