Through the Looking Glass

Blessed Wood

The sounds of hammers and mallets coming from the catty-corner house-in-progress have been replaced today by the boom of fireworks overhead. The albañiles (often translated as "masons," the word really encompasses a much broader range of construction work and its varied specializations), aren't taking advantage of the view toward our patio's potted mint, rosemary and cat grass. They're taking advantage of their 24 hours to celebrate. Being the 3rd of May, it's the Día del Albañil, when construction workers across the country set down their tools in exchange for a cup of something refreshing, soaking in the day set aside in their honor: those millions of laborers who--many as likely to send out a cat call as any construction worker in the states--put the roofs over millions of Mexico's heads.

This is serious business, as the continuous bursts of the cohetes can attest. Copious drinks are poured and lifted with toasts of "¡salud!" while plates are piled high from the various offerings on the table. Most often celebrated at the site of their current work, the day may also celebrate at home, and a good many will eventually fill the bars, cantinas and pulquerías close by. It's a delicious way to be grateful for a break, grateful for paid work and safety on the job, and grateful for the satisfaction of a finished product that may either loom near or remain far in the hopeful distance.

This gratefulness has other roots spreading both through the day and through the history of the country and Catholicism. May 3 is also the Día de la Santa Cruz--the day once appearing on the liturgical calendar to commemorate Saint Helen's discovery of Christ's cross in the city of Jerusalem. By 1970, the day was no longer an official religious feast, but it's connection in Mexico with the albañiles was already far too deep, and the Vatican made a concession to the country that allowed Holy Cross Day to continue.

The ties between Cross Day and Mexico's albañiles is said to be this: "Since in the early years of the Spanish colonial period in Mexico, most churches were still under construction, on May 3 the priests asked the masons to make crosses and put them on the highest point of the building." Decorated crosses had formed a much older part of Spanish tradition in the day's observance, and whether or not the albañiles began celebrating the day as their own as a result of this story, the truth is that today, the cross and construction are inextricably tied.

Those grouped together at their construction sites, hosted by the lead engineers and architects, still fashion a cross together, often from wood coming from their own materials, and sometimes decorated with flowers and colored paper. The head albañil is then asked to place it prominently over the work, an offering and a talisman from and for those who are linked to its construction. Patricio's good friend, Enrique, has engineered a large addition to a school not far up San Pedro's main street. I'm sure that at least a few of the fireworks are coming from that direction, shooting up past the cross that's already been nailed to the facade.

In the school's case, the construction spells prosperity both economically and intellectually for a number of people. But prosperity also fits in strangely with the wee, starry hours of May 3, as well. Over a late plate of quesadillas last night, Patricio remembered that buried coins or treasure are rumored to emanate a luminous, gaseous light above their hidden spots during the hours before the sun comes up. Uncovering such a find--from caches of Spanish gold to riches secreted away during the Revolution--would certainly make anyone, whether Catholic or albañil or both or neither, most grateful indeed.

Raise it High

Don't we just love symbols? Something easily identified, standing in for a different entity, one that is larger and unwieldy when put into words. They can sum up the familiar, and with them, we can construct a world of reflected identity. They can remind us of who we are, and they may inform others about us, too.

It might be a logo. Maybe a cross. A letter, perhaps. Often, too, it is a flag, and this past Saturday, Mexico celebrated its own. That green, white and red banner with the country's coat of arms in the center, the flag we know today is one of the most recognizable symbols of Mexico. Some might say that the Virgin of Guadalupe finds herself as a deeper, more visceral symbol of the country, and she herself even found herself on early Mexican flags--a symbol of those who fought for independence from Spain.

But for me, the flag seen these days over landmarks and city plazas--reaching dimensions of monumental size--and sometimes found in miniature, suction-cupped to windshields, carries a symbol that holds meaning even for me; someone not born to pledge allegiance to what it means.

It's that eagle in the center, wings outspread, the serpent in its teeth and talons, atop the cactus in a small, lacustrine island. It is a symbol not only of Mexico, or of the Mexica (Aztec) people, who upon seeing it as a completion of prophecy, knew where they were to call home. It can also mean something for so many; a symbol of destiny connected with a sense of place.

Other symbols of Mexico were present on Saturday for us, even if Patricio and I don't have a Mexican flag to our name. The morning was spent preparing for a slow afternoon of paella, shrimp stew, opened bottles and sunshine, and the welcoming into our home of the most indisputable of Mexican symbols that I know--the cherished togetherness of family.

Flag day held its own meaning for me on Saturday, having nothing to do with military marches or a particular affinity with red, white or green. Now part of a family, I'm a part of Mexico, too. And that eagle in the coat of arms sure does speak to me of an identity somehow Mexican, of a destiny all my own, connected with a sense of place.

Black Is the New Red

At least two sides: they are there for a coin, a driver's license, a story. Even a point of view can be plural. Such is the case at home since Saint Valentine's Day, or the Día del Amor y la Amistad here in México. The holiday itself gives lip service to two things, similar as they may be, the lines between love and friendship an almost laughable sort of thing to draw.

Patricio loves dogs. Alisa loves cats. Patricio loves Alisa to be happy at home. She is. But now even more so. Because Patricio's love has more than two million sides. And now Alisa will no longer talk of figurative black kittens, the kind blamed for stepping through a mirror into a looking-glass house.

In this story, it was the red Jetta's fault entirely. Parking for awhile at one of the ubiquitous, guilty pleasures of a restaurant, Vips, the bumper slid silently over the blocky, cement wheel-stop. Backing out later ripped the bumper right off; red Jetta was in need of an immediate fix. So we drove it down to what we often call Canutoland, a small triangle of a Tlalnepantla neighborhood, where nine out of ten people are Patricio's cousins of some first or second stripe. Ermenegildo, or Mere, runs a small mechanic shop on one side. He soon had the Jetta jacked up and drills buzzing, busily putting our Valentine-colored car back together again.

Lifting an old tire off to the trash, an employee dumped a dusty and unsuspecting kitten out, blinking into the sun and running fast back into the shop. Patricio saw it happen. Mere told him to take it. Looking up from a book, Patricio lifted the little thing into my lap. He was filthy as a grease-pump. I already knew he was mine. His side of the story might be different, but the ending was the same. He made passenger number three when the Jetta was set free.

We've named him Balam (pronounced like bah-láhm), which can't escape singularity, either. In Mayan, it means "jaguar," a black cat with a job that wasn't dark like its coat. The Balam were Mayan deities who protected people in their daily lives. The jaguars themselves would also protect a community from external threats. My little Balam serves as protection of a different sort, from too much solitude at home, from that need to hold and love another creature unlike myself.

But for some, Balam is also a three-headed demon, a duke of the underworld with all-knowing prescience. In the mornings, with little Balam waking us up by crawling around on our heads, I wonder if this is true, too. At the very least, though, he's as Alice said to Kitty, "A little mischievous darling."

I'm happy as a clam about him, and there are certainly no two ways about that. 

Bengal Lights

We would write our names with sparklers, wishing the light would last long enough to leave a light drawing, the likes of which Picasso might have winked at with a small smile. But we didn't know that much about Picasso in those young years of the Fourth of July, and neither did we know that sparklers might go by any other name, or that our tiny, crackling bright sticks could come in any other size. 

Now we know. In a country where the fascination with fireworks and scant fire codes lead to larger-than-life productions, and a good cherry bomb is a staple for most boys far beyond an Independence Day party, the sparkler exists in a league of its own. Indeed, the word "sparkler" would never fit the the bill; the truth is that by any other name, the object in question really wouldn't be as sweet. Christened here as luces de bengala, or Bengal lights, they bring to mind more than little showers of glimmer. Bengal, exotic and mysterious and powerful, tigers and rains and colors. And seemingly endless incandescence.

Sold at traffic lights and street corners and market stalls, the vendors' fingers can look like those of the tin man, one solid color of lustrous gray. Because luces de bengala aren't a trifling thing, packed into slim boxes for a couple of quarters apiece. (Not that those sparklers should be taken too lightly, either--they burn at a temperature of 2000 degrees). The luces are material for a double take at first sight, some a meter long, like a metallic cattail from pyromania's paradise.

They make their biggest appearance during the Christmas season, used often during posadas and Christmas Eve's tradition of softly caroling a lullaby to the baby Jesus. Without much room in the patio to work with picassoesque flair, Tim kept his luz tame as it glittered the dark alive during the song. I couldn't help but think, though, that it was perfect for writing out a whole "Timothy" in the air, a brief flash of suspension, of identity independent.

Deseos

Beginning with grapes, a lot of wishes are made and sent upward here between New Year's Eve and Epiphany. Twelve seconds before midnight of this new 2007, Patricio and I began stuffing those large purple globes into our mouths, making silent wishes for the twelve months to come, a hope expressed for each of the twelve sweet and seedy grapes. Having gone in for the loveliness of their shape, we'd forgotten to take into account their size; midnight rang out with the explosion of fireworks in the street, and with full mouths, we still had two or three to go. Believing in good luck for ourselves, in spite of our post-midnight bites, we sent our last desires up and out into the air, hopeful and even confident in another year of fine things from the future.

In the week that followed, children's wishes became tangible references, written into letters and sent skyward on the string of a Three Kings balloon. An environmental bugbear of a tradition, it's still a whimsical rite of touching innocence, where desire hasn't quite yet crossed the border to greed. Santa isn't the only fellow to tackle a sudden onslaught of holiday season missives; the Magi also collaborate on judging a little one's year of behavior against a letter that details what they want for being good. In recent decades, Santa has been making deliveries in Mexico, too, but those wise men have been kings of the gifting realm for many more.

In anticipation of their arrival on the eve of January 6, children pour out their hearts on paper to the Tres Reyes Magos--the Three Magi Kings--Gaspar, Melchor and Baltazar*, then tie their letters tight onto that special helium-filled courier service, full of faith in the mysteries of air mail. Knowing that Jesus received nothing less than gold, frankincense and myrrh from those men, it's hard not to trust in the arrival of something wonderful when they wake up early on the Día de los Reyes, the Kings' Day.

Many may have given a preview to their letters' content when meeting the Magi, their chance to stand or sit for a minute with them in front of a camera. Dressed in elaborate costumes of satins, baubles, trimming and beads, their appearance represents more than what Matthew recorded as their origins "from the east." Perhaps because they have been viewed as symbols of Noah's sons, Shem, Ham and Japheth, who tradition holds as having peopled Asia, Africa and Europe, respectively, or perhaps due to the Moorish influence in Spain, the Magi often include a turbaned king of African descent. Always, though, like Santa, they include an aura that makes kids' eyes light up most often with delight--and occasional terror--in their physical presence.

And whether or not their Día de los Reyes wishes fully come true, most will still end the day with a sweet taste on their tongues. Rich, oval rosca de reyes bread, with candied fruits crowning the sugar-glazed top, draws the whole family to the dinner table. Secretly, each one wishes they won't serve themselves a slice with the baby figurine tucked deep inside.

If they do, they'll be bearing the gift of a tamale dinner for everyone come Candlemas on February 2. And I'm sure the tamalero was wishing that plenty of babies made the cut, so to speak. It would make for a sweet way to begin these twelve months of the year, a lot like glutting on those hope-laden grapes.

*For those of you, like me, who enjoy a little irreverence now and then, the Magi's alter egos, otherwise known as the Tres Reyes Vagos are dubbed Malgastar, Malhechor and Vaaasaltar.

(The Three Good-for-Nothing Kings: Waste, Hooligan and He's-Going-to-Mug--a perfect example of humor oh, so lost in translation...)

Red and Green and Grown All Over

The mountain pass to Cuernavaca can make for a beautiful drive. Sloping fields of grain dot this season's landscape with sheaves of harvested stalks, little golden pyramids lashed together at the top. The forested descent into the city along the libre, or toll-free interstate road, also treats eyes attuned to December, with roadside vendors and small, local greenhouses selling a plant native to this particular neck of the woods. Poinsettias, or nochebuenas as they're called here, are big and red and lush in their pots, often more than tempting enough to take home.

Wednesday found us headed in that direction, paying a holiday visit to some friends. We let ourselves indulge in the idea of having nochebuenas as a red carpet rolled out for our arrival, a welcoming of color and an advent for Christmas soon to come. Nochebuena is the word in Spanish for "Christmas Eve," an evening graced with the flower's bright red leaves since the Catholic Church began to spread through conquered Mexico.

Rife with legends, Christian, pre-, and urban, the flower has a life of story, as well. And thanks to a U.S. ambassador to Mexico, the flower has both a name and an existence widely prevalent in the English-speaking world. The poinsettia is a bit of Mexico in the Christmas traditions up north, and like the first samples sent to South Carolina by Joel Poinsett with enthusiasm and hope, I'm sending out greetings in the same spirit of promise, wishing every dear reader a beautiful string of celebratory days: a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year--Feliz Navidad y Próspero Año Nuevo.

A Good Beating

I once learned the essentials of making a piñata. Layers of wet, gluey newspaper mâché, strategic clips in strips of wrapping tissue, metallic gift wrapping over stiff, fixed cones, and the indispensable hole to the hollow inside, ready for handfuls of sweets. It was experience enough to know that the craft borders closely on art. The result was a star-burst of silver and purple and white, perfect for the birthday when a lucky little one would beat it open with his stick. It was the first and last time a piñata left my amateurish hands; I'm happy to let more experienced ones do the work to better result.

And many of those hands belong to folks who live along stretches of Cuautitlán's roads, which we drove over on the way to Tenopalco for a nephew's cowboy-themed birthday party, the smiting of two piñatas and all. The first was a perfect rendition of Toy Story's Woody, losing his legs and a good deal of his figure before exploding in a candy shower over the roil of kids. It took a good twenty turns for Woody to come to pieces, partly due to a brother-in-law's moving the string around in a frenzy, and in spite of the home run hits that a few of the older ones let fly. And the crowd sung out a vocal version of an hour glass, limiting everyone's turn to the words, "Dale, dale, dale. No pierdas el tino, porque si lo pierdes, pierdes el camino. Ya le diste uno, ya le diste dos, ya le diste tres y ¡su tiempo se acabó!" ("Hit it, hit it, hit it (or Go, go, go). Don't lose your aim, because if you lose it, you'll lose your way. Now you've hit it once, now you've hit it twice, now you've hit three times and your time is up!")

The second piñata was of a more traditional bent, like the Cuautitlán beauty pictured below, boasting seven shiny points that symbolize the seven deadly sins. Brought to Mexico by the proselytizing Spanish (via a Chinese-inspired Italian tradition, according to some), it is also said that their use stemmed from an existing Mayan game of blindfolding players who would swing a stick at a chocolate-filled clay pot hanging from a string. Evangelistic efforts capitalized on the tradition, adding their own signature to the style. Conventionally made of a terra cotta pot and covered in vibrantly-colored paper, that basic cast served as Satan's symbol, of the loveliness temptation often acquires. The seven conical points are those seven cardinal sins, soon broken by the symbolic virtue of the stick, held in the hand of the blindfolded party, a "blind faith" leading her on. When the evil is broken, the symbol of God's love rains out, this time in the form of fruit or sweet confections. I doubt many people give much thought to all that symbolism nowadays, at least not at a precocious four-year-old's big bash of a birthday party.

But perhaps some do during a posada, one of the evening celebrations that take place between December 16 and Christmas. A reenactment of Mary and Joseph's search for a place to stay in Bethlehem, it often involves moving from house to house in an antiphonal chorus to pedir posada, or ask for an inn in which to stay. Still organized among neighbors in many parts, it can now also be a strictly friend or family affair. This Friday, we'll be going to one that seems a mix of the two, at cousin Blanca's house in an eastern suburb, where we'll sing to a few neighbors along the length of their street. Returning to her place, we'll be invited in, finally being granted our posada, or place to stay. Copious amounts of food will be served, along with that all-important piñata.

Las Posadas and Christmas were the piñata's original setting, and though the religious sense may be lost or irrelevant to many, the centuries of it's tradition still weigh in with a heavy and binding distinction, like those thick, wet layers of sticky paper mâché.