I am really mournful watching the colors, the sounds, the politeness of Mexico fade from my daily life. My hope is that it is seeping in to my mind, soul, personal vibration. There was something so comfortable, to me, about greeting people; good morning, good afternoon, good evening. And feeling it now, in a world where such a greeting would be viewed as lame or uptight or, even, arrogant; it is all the more colorfully joyous. I miss it. More accurately I miss who I was there.
Right or wrong I had the feeling that the Mexican people would not walk on by should there be an accident. I saw a very well dressed suited man stand next to an open air food vendor who was selling something from a steeping pot, with solid horizontal contact. By that I mean, no contempt, certainly no self-righteousness. These were two men, each working and living in the world, most likely with similar responsibilities; to care for their families.
Our driver, Sergio was our cultural professor, ready to answer any question. From one borough to another, the conversation deepened in content and revelation. After visiting the Templo Mayor Museum on Saturday afternoon, we asked about all the children with notebooks and pens in hand. Sergio told us that Monday through Friday children went to school, Saturday was for learning trips and Sunday was for family. We certainly were in another country.
Yes, I am romanticizing about it. I know that but my conscience allows me to inquire, to examine, to feel how people live. Judging it is not my task. Looking beneath the surface may reveal terrible poverty, a routinized gender caste system, a religious mythology that furthers the inequities but, as a visiting pilgrim, I am not there to bust it, burst it, disrespect it. I am there to learn, to feel the best, to accept the elegant etiquette and respect how the people live in their social mandala.
Yesterday, Juan, the man who tends my garden was here. I brought him a holy card from the Basilica de Guadalupe. Two weeks ago he cautioned me about going and I wanted to tell him how safe I was, how much I loved my trip. He looked at me and said, “Maybe for a week or two.” Yes, I only dipped in and it was all entirely optional. Yes, I was only skating on the surface with a fortune in my pocket. Yes, my privilege is a crown of birth, education and freedom.
I have so much to think about, to consider, to marvel about. Maybe Mexico taught me about my astounding good fortune but she did not teach me to pity, to judge, to walk in self-importance. I am so very grateful.
March 13, 2012
March 08, 2012
The Men of Mexico City by Zoe
To even my surprise, I am moved to write about the men of Mexico City and, yet, I hesitate for many reasons. In no way do I imagine that I understand the old ways, the culture, the Church and all of the nuance of men in Mexico. What I am able to reflect on is the enormous gap between the stereotype and the reality of my experience.
As I told the people of my life that I was going to Mexico City the reactions were mostly somewhere between a yellow caution light and a strong steady red light. I have no idea why it was easy to disregard their concerns. Even Juan, the master gardener who takes care of my yard, was more than worried. He said, no, you should go to Acapulco. I thought, I do not need to see White Americans vacationing with a margarita in hand and a Brazilian.
As best I can sum up, in the six full days in the F. D., I saw working hands. My mind kept running a ticker that said, working hands. From drivers to dog walkers, from husbands to school boys, from federales to artisans; my mind kept steady ~ working hands. Not that I ever adopted the stereotype of lazy but what knocked me out was the infinite gap between this lie and the truth.
The fathers, husbands, sons, brothers were all doing all things and with a respect that I still feel after flying all the way home. Ok, you feminists, you want to give me a pop on the head that says, AH Zoe, machismo – you have heard of that, no? Yes, I have and yes I know a lot about the terrible oppression women suffer, particularly under the cloak of the church. That is not what I am talking about. I am taking about the respect for work, for a job well done, for the elegance, the framing of the sentence, the pause for thought, the crease on the shirt sleeve.
Yes, I will write about the women. Yes, I saw the women. But at this moment, this very moment, I am flooded with the images of men in every Borough of Mexico City. I saw fathers with their kids. I saw husbands with their wives. I am not so cynical that I cannot be moved while watching a father, holding a new baby, crossing the plaza to the Basillica de Guadalupe, on his knees, with his wife holding back the blazing sun with an umbrella. I was so moved I never reached for a camera, with tears welling in my eyes streaming down my cheeks. That was the Holy Family. She was the true Divine Mother and He was about to stand in commitment to provide and protect them.
March 04, 2012
March 03, 2012
March 02, 2012
The City & a Blue Like No Other
We are staying at the Red Tree House where the men who work here know your name, sit and chat, assure you of your safety in the city and arrange taxis driven by men they know. It is a magical place.
This morning we met Sergio who would drive us anywhere and wait for us: diva gringas with no apologies. Of course it was the Casa Azure. It was more than a dream.
Outside the front door was a policeman with a gun on his belt and an automatic rifle strapped to his arm. But nothing could dilute Azure paradise.
Walking in the first room of paintings two separate people were audibly crying. Their tears were mine too. How well I understand what it means to study, to hold in one's heart the treasure of the painter. Once perceived and the painter is gone, the painting is as close as one will ever get.
Today I know it is her paints & brushes, her kitchen, her garden and her bookshelves that introduced, Frida, the woman to me.
Buenos Dias
The flight was so easy that it seemed like we were just sitting in a restaurant. So mush easier than across the country. And the open faced interest of the people, which put me off at first, made it clear I was not in Kansas or USA at all.
The room is my casa Zoe. All. The best colors and ironed sheets. So the star of the trip thus far is April the Golden Retriever. She not only is a greeter but she does yoga on command. Victor, her human, just says yoga and she does down ward dog. Needless to say, we are off to a wonderful start.
February 12, 2012
Frida On My Mind by Zoe
For the last two months I have been traveling to Mexico in my mind, imagination, appreciation, trepidation, concentration, hesitation. My legs have been walking the dog for these two months, hoping to build a bit of strength for walking on pink steps or holy grounds. My spirit is curious about the Mayans and 2012; maybe they have called me there for a tête-à-tête. And every time I try to say something in Spanish with some casual tone, it comes out in French as if all non-English lives in the same brain room.
A long time ago I knew that preparation was part of the trip itself. When I was 8, packing for the opening of Disneyland, I figured every one there would be wearing their special Disneyland outfit. It was picked out first and packed first and had to match a set of ears. One of the many teachers I have had taught that a trip begins with the list, the ticket, the passport app. And so I have been traveling for a while now.
I am not alone when I say that reading something once, seeing something once, brushing past something briefly doesn’t stick so I have immersed myself in all things Frida. Possibly some facebook activist friends have thought I left the building, with all my Mexico posts, but that is not the case. I do what I have to at 63, to remember, to know, to seer into my vision. And they would not know me or Frida well to think such a thing; both bisexual, both radical, both political. She is complex and interesting. She tells us so much through the visual; painting, photos, clothes, jewelry and her homes. I had the good fortune to have lived with a painter, a surrealist painter, for many years. I can tell you that when you look at a refined exact, elegant self-portrait the artist looks nothing like that! Paint on hands, on shoes, under nails, on the dog, on the new kitchen towel and, of course, their face.
Now, everything I see in my closet, on my desk or rises for attention is now sized up; will it go? Will I need it? The trip to Frida is always on my mind. That's my idea of a pilgrimage and it has begun.
December 01, 2011
My Comrades by Melissa
I have a very special love for women who break the rules by challenging society's expectations of them, and this is the primary reason why I have loved Frida Kahlo since I accidentally discovered her in my early 20's. I may have seen her portrait before then, but it was at the Wednesday afternoon swamp meet in Indio, California, where one September I really took notice of her work. I was saboreando un elote, and I stopped adjust my bag in front of a stand that was dedicated to all things Frida. Her iconic paintings, printed on posters, t-shirts, and note cards, were full of so much emotion that I couldn't look away. Who would paint such things, and why would I find them at the swap meet?
Thus began my interest in the biography of Frida. The more I learned of her, the more interested I became in the complexity of her work. And somewhere along the way, I saw this picture, of Frida marching in a May Day celebration in 1929. My own consciousness of the history of labor's struggle was unfolding, and I felt a special connection to the photographed 22-yr-old who appeared so confident and resolute. I wanted to march with her, stay up into the wee hours of the madrugada talking politics, sip good mescal and share chismes about lovers. All of this had nothing to do with her art, though over the years I have come to value that part of her too.
Never in my wildest imagination, could I see that I would be traveling back to Coyoacan with another comrade, who has also lived her life challenging society's expectations. Zoe and I have marched together, stayed up into the wee hours of the madrugada talking politics, and shared chismes about lovers. And now we get to share something else...a trip with open hearts and uplifted hands, to the places Frida loved.
She's been expecting us.
November 07, 2011
An Afternoon with Frida by Zoe
It surprises me that Frida has garnered such international fame as of late. There are calendars, fabric, cards, dozens of books. She would have been so controversial today. I have written about her for a while and it is confounding that people love her who would be anti-gay, anti-woman, anti-communist. Honestly it makes me feel possessive as if to say, NO! I love all of her.
Her painting is not classically beautiful but since it is clearly a reflection of her mind and heart, projected on a canvas with such refined finesse, it shows the beauty of who she was. It is double astounding as it is her talent and her ruthless self-discovery hung on a wall for all to see, to criticize, to dismiss or, even, worship. Finally after years of looking at her work, mostly in books, we are going to stand in the flooded pool of her. Promising not to faint or shriek but no promise of not weeping, we are on the way.
The picture on the right is exactly how I expect to find her. Hand-rolled cigarette in hand. Plain clothes, braided hair, crafted necklace and an open face welcoming intelligent conversation. My heart races to think that Melissa and I will pull up a chair and chat with Frida. I am certain she would like us, offer a shot of tequila and dance.