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.