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.

Mary, Mary Quite Legendary

"Can you hear the music?" my mother-in-law, Celia, asked me over the phone last night. It was eleven o'clock, and we'd called to see how they were doing. I couldn't hear any music, and told her as much. "But wait," she said, "Let me get closer to the window." And the music then began stream on in from her end of the line. "So are you two coming over for the pachanga, or what?" asked Patricio's dad with a laugh. "I think I'm going to take a sleeping pill," declared Celia, insinuating that she loved Our Lady of Guadalupe just as much as the next person, but she also loved a good night's sleep.

Today, December 12th, is when the Virgin of Guadalupe appeared to Juan Diego for the last time in 1531, exhorting him to pick roses on the desert hill of Tepeyac, which he could then carry and display for Bishop Zumárraga as proof of Mary's apparition and full reason to build a church on that hill where she appeared. Letting down the large fold in his apron-like tilma, the unseasonal flowers fell to the floor, revealing Mary's image imprinted on the coarse fabric's weave. It is the same image, we are told, that sits high in its frame on the far wall of the current basilica, often simply called La Villa, perched as requested on Mexico City's Tepeyac hill.

Believed to have said on one occasion to Juan Diego, "Do not be distressed, my littlest son. Am I not here with you, who am your Mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection?" She then proceeded to heal Juan Diego's dying uncle, ushering in a new age of devotion to Mary that would lead this image to be that of the America's patron saint, protector and intercessor and hope for those who believe, and unequivocal symbol of Mexican identity.

She was the music's inspiration last night, blasting from street-side speakers to usher in her day. The taxi stand across the street from my in-laws' house, like every other stand I've seen throughout the country, bears a shrine in her honor, and come the 12th of December, her figure becomes sparkling clean, cascading with fresh flowers and adorned with electric lights. The taxi drivers, in between their work-night runs, celebrate on into the wee hours of the morning, grateful to the Virgin for another year of safety and thanking her with a joyful noise to keep the neighborhood awake, as well.

Neighborhood shrines to Our Lady are all decorated in their December finest, and the churches, chapels and cathedrals in her name draw special attention, too. But that doesn't stop other churches or families from sending out their own reports of fireworks through the night. Anxious celebrants began blasting them near our house in yesterday morning's heightened spirit, but midnight began to roll with their sound like thunder, and they've continued in dependable pops since then.

School was let out early across the street. The banks are all closed for the day. And thousands of people have arrived in the city on pilgrimage, some of the millions who each year cross miles from home on foot, bike, or when tired, on the back of a truck to arrive at the basilica and pay homage to their most beloved of saints. We live off a mountain route that winds its way to Michoacán, and this season often finds an impressive source of slowed traffic: stretches of road filled with the slow movement of pilgrims, their rest trucks and vanguard banners, t-shirts and bike spokes adorned with the image of their destination. Escorted on the move by a set of state police, they make their way in good weather or bad, stopping to rest on storefront steps, and bathing in large public baths from town to town.

Arriving at that sacred hill of Tepeyac--once a holy place for Juan Diego's ancestors, where the mother goddess Tonantzin was worshiped--the pilgrims at La Villa on December 12th are simply a fraction of those who celebrate devotions across the country. Likely a syncretic combination of two religions, two races and and two names, the Virgin of Guadalupe has exercised an awesome pull over her people for almost five hundred years. Who else could get a street full of taxi drivers to party at their stand through the night like that, singing Las mañanitas with such singular verve?

Metal Matters

It's true, I haven't been punished in a long time. I've suffered consequences, of course, like those suffered after telling the woman with the scissors to "go even shorter," or those that happen after deciding that devouring a third, thick disc of cinnamoned chocolate is, really, a good idea. But I haven't done much to merit castigation--or its Spanish equivalent, castigo--since I parked my car on Spring street in a dubiously-marked no-parking zone. One hundred and five dollars later, I've tried keeping to the general straight and narrow.

But like most of us, even if it doesn't mean hair shirts, flagellum or a cilice--or even a string of rosary beads, for that matter--I've certainly been known to be hard on myself. Like the day two weeks ago when half of our zaguán, or tall metal gate, gave a slump to the center and would no longer close. Patricio flexed his biceps and got to work with the welder to fix it, but dropped the tiny, steel hinge ball in the tangle of green grass. Working his hands through through the blades nearest the ground, like searching for a lone tick on a wily gorilla's forehead, he was lambasting himself for a split-second fault of the hand.

Eventually, he found it, but not before my own personal reproof could put me in a figurative corner. "With a magnet, we could find that thing in a matter of seconds," Patricio said, and my mental Rolodex flipped back twelve months ago to the days I packed his belongings and we moved into our own little house. Clinging fast to his old wallet chain, curled around a collection of keys in the back of a dressing table niche, was a pair of huge magnets, perfect for finding steel balls in the grass.

I marched inside the house and took the key/chain box down from the closet, sure I'd find those thick, metal discs and sure to relieve Patricio of his grass-combing. But they weren't there. I even checked twice. And I realized that those magnets had probably gone into the black, plastic bags that went out to the curb. I walked back out into the yard, dragging my feet with and with a face full of compunction.

"I think I threw them away," I said.

"Oh, I doubt that," he said, "I know you'd never throw anything of mine away without asking."

Um, right. Of course I didn't inherit the habit of throwing things out from my dad. I remembered the day we returned from a Wyoming vacation to find that he'd had enough of our five cats and had taken them all to the pound. (We got four back). I'm not sure it made it any easier for me to see that Patricio chose gracious denial in the face of what was likely the case: that I'd thrown his good magnets out, and who knows what else that he might ask about someday. Contrition was certainly the word for the afternoon, though it did end happily with the zaguán returned to working order.

I managed to punish myself mentally over some metal, and soon discovered that metal can also by punished. In the world of penitence through prayed rosaries, bells rise up to a quasi-human status, names, potential for punishment, and all.

The Catedral Metropolitana that presides over the north end of Mexico City's Zócalo boast 30 different bells. Symbols of God's voice, the oldest, Doña María, left the foundry in 1578. The largest, Santa María de Guadalupe--a youngster at 215 years--weighs in at 13 tons. Not all the bells are rung every day, marking the hours of services or calls to prayer. And some, the punished, might not ring for years.

One of the bells, an esquila that rings with the centrifugal force of its turning, pushed on by human hands, is known as la castigada. She was punished with silence for fifty years after knocking her pusher in the head and sending his soul heavenward. It wasn't until the next jubilee year that she was allowed to ring again, though always with her scarlet cross. Perhaps being la castigada made her really seem more human, but she was certainly the bell that evoked the most tenderness from me. The tour of the cathedral's belfries is well worth it--to see the city from a bell's eye view and hear the angelus rung midday. But it was the penitent bell that made the trip unforgettable, to see that the voice of God had suffered in silence, too.

(More silence from this blog, as well, until next week. We'll be in the mountains of New Mexico, and thankful. A happy Thanksgiving to you, too!)

Happy Birthday, Baby

Patricio turned either 43 or 44 on Sunday, depending on which birth certificate we feel like believing. According to the passport agency and the department of motor vehicles, Patricio just finished up living the first 43 years of his life. According to his own calculations, though, he admits he’s probably 44; how gallantly Patricio stands in the face of time.

Or perhaps his nonchalance stems from it being yet one more detail he shares with an author he reveres. Gabriel García Márquez, to be precise. Aside from them both living in Mexico City, holding liberal views about spelling, and boasting a long line of family members that are hearty grist for the magical realist mill, they both have slightly uncertain birth years. In this light, for Patricio, it borders on privilege not to know his age for certain.

He has two birth certificates guarded quietly in the their file, both from the civil registry, both official, and each with a different year written in bold, black typewriter ink. Gauging his age, then, has more to do with how small he looked in a series of black and white photos, crying in his mother's arms, as she watched his older sister blow out her own birthday candles.

Still, the discrepancy between his birth years remains a funny mystery, and for a good while, so did the day. He was well into junior high when told it fell on October 22nd.

It wasn't that birthdays at home weren't much of a big deal, it was that they weren't a deal at all. Much like celebrating, say, St. Patrick's day in Mexico, the response would simply be "What for?" In fact, the only family birthday party he remembers was that well-photographed event for his sister, Trini, when their mother brought a huge basket of strawberries home. She stirred up a huge pot of jam and then proceeded to bake that memorable, well-documented, scrumptious strawberry cake. Even in black and white, those strawberries on top look awfully tempting.

It wasn't until his elementary school days began when, listening as his friends talked on the playground of their birthdays and name days, it occurred to Patricio that he didn't know his own. One of his friends, upon a little investigation, discovered that St. Patrick's day was the 17th of March, so Patricio--figuring his birthday and name (or saint's) day most likely coincided--decided he must have come into the world smack in the middle of the year's third month.

A few years later--probably prefaced by his oft-asked question as to why they gave him the "funny" name Patricio, and not what he deemed to be the more logically correct Simón--he approached his mom to confirm his March anniversary.

"Mmmm," she said, drawing her eyebrows closer together, "I remember it being around November." Thoughtful little Patricio then decided his birthday must have been November 1st.

And that's what he believed, and told people if they asked, and continued not to consider as a matter of large importance. But then he proved himself a veritable super star of junior high sports, and the coach resolved to enter Patricio into tournaments around the state. Pulling Patricio's school records to fill in the age-placement blank, Mr. Coach was the fellow who finally hit on the definitive day. And then he told Patricio. And Patricio's been a Libra ever since.

Traditions are often hard to begin, though, and in the years that followed, he'd often forget it himself. And despite the number of notable GreenBeans in the country, St. Patrick's day doesn't find the Zócalo decorated with tinsel shamrocks, and Patricio would forget his first mistaken birthday--his saint's or name day--too.

Though once more popularly celebrated than birthdays, name days seem to have gone the way of forgetting with most everyone nowadays, too. Children aren't found talking much about their saints' days out on the playground, and even if one's parents did name her after her birthday's saint, the only mention of it will probably happen in the singing of a birthday's "Las Mañanitas."

Patricio may still wish he'd been given the name Simón, but he views his saint's day in a much different light, after marrying a girl whose mother's maiden name was Breen.

It's often said that two is better than one, and we're subscribing to the idea, at least where birth certificates and personal celebrations are concerned. Smiling at the idea of both birth certificates filed away, and both his birth and saint's day to celebrate his life, I'm glad he's Patricio, no matter what his age may be.

what st. juliana started, ignacio kept colorful

driving into the city center today, a young couple was selling something different from the usual amigo phone cards, trident gum and japanese style peanuts. stepping off the median on avenida reforma, they worked their way between the cars at the stoplight, bamboo frameworks held up in their hands. tied to the slim, woody rods were at least a good dozen of tiny, color-saddled, corn husk mules.

patricio asked me what day it was. i told him it was thursday, and he realized that this june 15 is the feast of corpus christi.

a moveable feast that celebrates the eucharist, corpus christi has become a day for children here. but the little husk mules that the couple was selling can also find a home in a grown-up's space, from the rear-view mirror to a small hook at home.

the light turned green, the couple made their retreat, and patricio shifted the red jetta back into drive. we were headed to the centro histórico with other things in mind, but the children holding their parents' hands, toddling with them down tacuba street, let us know that corpus christi was the day's big event, a few blocks away in the zócalo. dressed in indigenous outfits, we met them walking away from the cathedral, looking much like these girls and a little boy behind us when we decided to make a trip inside, too.

patricio held a very vague idea about the beginnings of the feast's traditions, so we both learned something new today, and the story we heard goes like this: since 1526, the feast of corpus christi has been celebrated in the city, the focal point of the celebrations being a solemn mass service and a procession led from the zócalo. the holy eucharist was held up and taken through streets by the archbishop, who was followed by an opulent entourage of viceroys, soldiers, and the diocese clergy. many people came into the city, their mules loaded down with their harvest fruits, setting up markets and making offerings of thanks. one year, one of them--a young man named ignacio--arrived with a fragile faith and mind full of doubts about his decision to soon become a priest. on that day of corpus christi, he asked christ for a sign, and as the procession of the eucharist passed where he stood, he thought, "if God is truly present here, even the mules also would all bow down." a moment later, his mule knelt to the ground. he took it as the sign he sought.

now what we have are corn husk mules and the cathedral full of children in costume. it's a worthy tradition, i think, nonetheless--for the faithful, and even for those who have doubts.

this good friday

the town of san francisco magú lies a half hour away. situated in the hills rising over the north side of the valley of méxico, it's the kind of place where everyone knows each other, and has for a long, long time. it stands out historically from other small towns in the area, in the form of a centuries-old document: penned by a spanish viceroy, the people of magú carefully guard the parchment that declares their exemption from tax payments. ratified by benito juárez in 1871, the edict still holds true legally, and for the residents, wonderfully. legends describe the viceroy's motivations for decreeing perpetual benevolence in favor of his subjects, though i'm not sure anyone claims to an official version. those legends may hold more truth than anyone will ever know.

patricio and i visited magú today at noon, joining the town's crowd in honor of a different, more weighty truth. towns and cities all over the country celebrate good friday in much the same way as magú, by reenacting the events of christ's crucifixion. every four years, a different young man volunteers in magú to carry a fifty-pound cross through the streets toward the church, a crown of real thorns on his head and the insults of soldiers in his ears. their whips may have been soft braids of cloth, but they still left his and the two thieves' backs as red as a burn by the end of the procession. at each station, the new testament events were narrated and prayers were offered up. it was impossible not to be moved. observers watched from windows and rooftops and doorways, some offering cold bags of juice to the crowds passing by. it was a long, hot walk--many times more for jesus and the thieves. (click here for a glimpse in motion).

arriving at the church, they were tied to their crosses and vaulted into place. the narration and the events continued, with the hanging of judas from a nearby tree. vendors sold churros and ice cream to children while jesus cried out in thirst.

i though for awhile about the penitente communities in northern new mexico and southern colorado that also reenacted the good friday crucifixion. i remember listening to stories about real crucifixions and self-flagellation, amazed that religious fervor could lead believers to such extents. hours after the procession, i can see why the tradition--no matter what the level of verisimilitude--remains so deeply rooted. in magú, it puts a whole new spin on perpetual exemption, and the truth in the stories behind it.

on the light-er side of things

the electricity goes out here often. at least four or five times a week, the washing machine stops in mid-sud cycle, the radio settles into silence, and i am left grateful that i my computer is connected to a big, black battery, providing about an hour of power when the lights go out. sometimes it happens in the dark hours of the morning, taking away my sleep-help of white noise, the nightly gift of my fan. at times like those, i vacillate between frustration that i can no longer sleep or wash the dish towels, and thankfulness that we have the luxury of electricity in the first place.

but then again, is it really a luxury? am i thinking like a spoiled child if i reason that the state should responsibly and dependably provide electric power to its citizens? it's not as necessary as running water, but a still a staple.

i admit, though, that i am spoiled, and grudgingly glad for chances to take a few less things for granted. come to think of it, patricio and i have enjoyed a few more candle-lit dinners than we would have, had their been no neighborhood blackouts. i've also used a few of those power-free times as an excuse not to do the ironing for another day. those have been good times; champagne bubbles look so much more romantic by candlelight, and as much as i try to find the meditative side of ironing, i enjoy it about as much as i enjoy listening to paul anka sing smells like teen spirit. it's not insufferable, but it's not fun, either. (his cover of black hole sun, on the other hand, is fun squared. or maybe even cubed.)

well, as if on cue, the electricity just went out. it would be really nice if, after a few more months, i could qualify for an honorary degree in "taking things in stride." i guess i'll start by taking a deep breath.

sending out good news: mail and the baby Jesus

A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.  ~Emily Dickinson

lauro, a dear family friend, doesn't have email and doesn't feel like he needs it. so he and i write letters to each other, taking advantage of pens, paper and the postal service. having just finished another missive to him full of wedding news, i headed out the door yesterday on a trip to the post office here in nicolas romero. actually, my trip included a double mission: mail the letter and ask for some advice.

why the need for advice? well, patricio and i discovered that, after a number of furniture and pizza delivery snafus, we aren't the only couple who live in house #73 on lake chapultepec street; the place two or three doors down also boasts the same address. i can say with confidence that we are the real number 73, sandwiched in between 71 and 75, but the mailman apparently favors the other residence, and gives them all of our mail. the neighbors, bless them, have been pretty kind in bringing our mail over to us. granted, they have a habit of waiting a week or two to do it, preferring to toss the envelopes in through the gate instead of depositing them in the mailbox, managing to deliver our mail to us on a number of surprise rain shower days, and leaving the majority of our letters and christmas cards with extra character--blurry words here and there and good, warped, card stock. we've appreciated the effort, but i figured it wouldn't hurt to let the post office know of our predicament and ask what we should do.

i love going to the post office. the employees are friendly, sell me exotic-looking stamps, and inflate my ego by complimenting my handwriting.

i also admit to loving the post office because i am amazed, upon entering, that it can function as well as it does. it's a tiny little office, located on the second floor of a building where the entrance leads off a small alley-like corridor. it's located right off the plaza and across the street from the market, but despite it's central placement, i still had to ask a number of people how to find it when i went for the first time. half of them had no idea where it was, and the rest, except for two, had no idea how to give me directions other than, "it's up there close to the bank." now that i know where it is, though, i feel like it's my little secret wonderland, where only a select few can enter and send greetings magically to any country, near or far.

it's location is not the only interesting part, though. the thing that really blows my mind is that it's the only post office in the entire city. last year's census claims that about 270,000 people call nicolas romero home. anyone who has driven through it, though, knows that the statistics are vastly inaccurate. patricio and i estimate that the entire municipality, including four or five outlying mountain towns, has at least half a million inhabitants, but could easily have a lot more. even if only 75 percent of the houses here have electricity or running water, that's still a whole lot of bills to deliver, not to mention any other notices or correspondence.

however, there are three key factors i've come up with to explain the existence of our one and only, magically realistic, post office. and if my speculations aren't too far off base, they also influence each other cyclically. first, i imagine that the government doesn't dedicate a whole lot of funding or rigor to the institution. not being able to pay lots of employees to deliver the mail, not being able to afford more efficient sorting equipment, and not being able to weed out corruption (stealing checks, for example) would be a real deterrent for people when it comes to sending anything from a payment to a birthday card. which leads me to the second factor: few people write to each other here, and no one--ever--pays a bill by mail. neither patricio nor his parents had mailing addresses for any of their friends and family. needless to say, sending post-wedding thank you notes posed a bit of a challenge. and christmas cards? what a novel tradition! additionally, also due to the first factor, stamps here are expensive. it costs almost twice as much to send a letter both within and from mexico as it does in the states. if we americans, some of the wealthiest people on the planet, complain about the rising stamp prices, you can imagine how many people here would feel about shelling out their hard-earned money for a stamp, when they can make a phone call for a lot less?

the third factor that would also keep the post office small is something that will make a lot of you smile: junk mail is virtually non-existent. that's right, no credit card applications, no nordstrom sale advertisements, and no unsolicited-solicited catalogs. it is beautiful (with all due respect, timo).

in any case, the postal system really works. erin reminds me to keep the faith, believing that mail will arrive sooner or later, and she is right. with the exception of beth's super-vitamins (patricio suspects that customs deemed them a little too suspicious), we've received everything from lauro's letters to an exquisite italian ceramic bowl. and once i follow the postmaster's advice of posting, very visibly, "familia uribe cooper" on our mailbox, we might soon be getting our mail even faster than before. so i'm taking erin's encouragement to heart, but i also know that harboring a little doubt makes the mail's arrival even better news.

***

speaking of faith and good news, my trip to the post office was fruitful for another reason, too. first, some background: it's been such a treat for me these past five months to experience first-had many of the religious and festive celebrations i've only read or heard about for so long--independence day, dia de los muertos, and christmas eve being the big examples. the second half of the christmas season has also been wonderful, too. on epiphany--january 6--patricio and i celebrated that day of the three kings' visit with elidia. similar to the french king cake tradition of new orleans (the one with the baby figurine inside), we feasted on the mexican rosca de reyes. a rosca is a bread in the form of a circle or an oval, with a hole in the center. the rosca de reyes, or king bread, comes rife with symbolism: it's shape speaks of an eternal God, without beginning or end. it also mimics the shape of a kings' crown. the fruits that decorate it are like the crown's jewels, and can also be reminders of Christ's sweet grace. the bread itself symbolizes brotherhood and unity, and the little baby figurine(s) hidden inside are symbols of Jesus, both the child that was hidden from king herod and the redeemer we should seek out.

whoever slices their part of the rosca with a figurine inside will host another gathering on february 2, or candlemas. this is the day when joseph and mary apparently went to the temple to present their son and receive both blessing for the child and purification for the mother. all new parents were called to do so, 40 days after the birth of a child.

it is a tradition here for families to have their own baby Jesus doll, and every three years, before christmas eve, two members of the family are chosen to be the godparents of the baby Jesus. patricio and his sister, trini, were the godparents a number of years ago, and their responsibilities included presenting the baby Jesus on christmas eve in a special ceremony when he was sung to, kissed, and placed in his cradle. for three years, they kept the baby in their home, and each year, before february 2, they took him to be dressed. there are even fashion guidelines on how the baby should be dressed each year, from the color of the dress to whether or not he should have a throne in which to sit or a crown to adorn his head. during the candlemas service on february 2, each family then has the honor of presenting a newly-dressed Jesus, reenacting the presentation of Christ in the temple and receiving the priest's blessing. afterward, the family spends time together enjoying tamales and atole, a cornmeal drink. (from las posadas that begin on december 16 to february's candlemas, the infant Jesus sure has become a pretext for lots of good parties).

patricio, elidia and i all ended up finding a figurine in our slice of rosca, so we'll be splitting the cost of the tamales tomorrow. but i'm not sure if anyone will be presenting a newly-dressed Jesus, since we all accidentally forgot to bring him to our christmas eve celebration. oops. i suppose that means we'll be celebrating more a la azteca, which didn't call for any representations of Jesus, but did call for celebrating the new year--which began around the same date--by eating and offering up to the gods their tamales.

it was clear to me yesterday, though, that many of Jesus's godparents in nicolas romero didn't forget to bring him along to his birthday party in december. neither are they neglecting their preparations for tomorrow's celebration. the main streets leading up to the market were abuzz, an awesome explosion of stands dedicated entirely to fixing up, dressing up, and fitting out the baby Jesus. each stand had, at the very least, five or six people huddled around it, choosing outfits and the appropriate accessories while workers diligently and carefully airbrushed brown hair here and rosy skin there, restoring the dolls to perfection. one of the stands had a sign saying that they "dressed the baby Jesus with lots of love," and it was easy to believe. it was a beautiful yet surreal experience to see dozens of people, men and women alike, walking the streets and cradling blankets or bassinet baskets with Jesus peeping out from underneath layers of silk and ruffles. others, still waiting to be proud bearers, carefully spoke their desires: one woman, ear pressed to a pay phone's receiver, reminded the person on the other end--with not a little urgency in her voice--that it was very important "not to forget to bring the big baby Jesus, not the small one."

these traditions surrounding candlemas were ones i'd never heard of before. i suppose they don't carry the cache that celebrations like dia de los muertos enjoy, but that actually made the walk to the post office a lot more serendipitously special and unforgettable for me. none of what happened yesterday was for show, but rather the unquestioned continuation of a yearly ritual, keeping a community tied together around traditions rooted in faith and family. that, to me, is also good news. and something to write home about.

primeramente Dios

the first time i remember hearing people talk about occurrences being the will of God was when i saw the movie "lawrence of arabia." perhaps it was the newness of the context that grabbed my attention to the custom, because i don't remember having ever heard people around me say, "God willing," or "that is the way God wills it." i'm quite sure phrases like that must have been whispered at funerals or in conversations about ill friends and family, but the fact is that it really wasn't a part of popular vocabulary. it never was until now.

my way of seeing and understanding the world around me has always had its roots in the christian faith, and i don't think i could ever stop believing that things have happened in my life for a good reason, or for a cause larger than my own individual plans. but i'm an american, born and raised in a culture that still retains a lot of its puritan philosophical foundations, so i also can't help but believe that free will, hard work, and well-considered decisions play a huge role in determining the outcomes of my plans and what happens to me in the future.

i also understand that the decisions other people make, no matter how seemingly insignificant they may seem, affect me in ways i can never fully know. i'm a small part of a big web; no matter how early i leave the house to make it on time for my vacation flight, if someone is running late for a meeting, makes a hasty lane-switch on the highway, flips the car and causes a monumental traffic jam, i'm simply going to miss my flight.

but something i'd never given a lot of thought to was the ever-existing possibility that, before i even tried to realize my plans, God or the greater cause would not want it to happen. this is not to say that i don't keep my antenna waves free when making a decision, trying to pick up vibes that might point me in another direction. but once i've set my mind on something, i usually forget that i'm still not entirely in control of the unfolding situation.

after having been in Mexico for only a few weeks, though, i noticed how different the worldview can be here in terms of future plans. i continue to be caught off guard fairly often when talking about my plans with other people; from going to see a movie on thursday night to spending a weekend in acapulco, the other person often responds first by saying, "primero Dios"  (literally, "God first"). initially, it was a little unsettling to hear people say that--it felt like they were qualifying my plans, as if God likely wouldn't want me to enjoy my popcorn in the movie theater after all.

i finally realized, however, that it's not really the case. whether or not the speaker really believes that the situation is in the hands of God, saying "primero Dios," "primeramente Dios," "Dios primero," etc., is like using a sort of verbal talisman. the nicaraguan linguist, jimmy aviles, put it nicely, saying that the words serve as a security measure, a profession of confidence and faith.

the person i know best who says it the most is our dear friend, elidia. she has worked for patricio's family for at least fifteen years, has lived through a lot of tough times, possesses a profound well of wisdom, and offers help at any opportunity. it's not hard to see that she really does believe our lives are entirely in the hands of God. i still haven't developed the habit of thinking or saying, "primero Dios," when plans are involved, but i don't mind piggy-backing onto elidia's faith when she says it for me.

i would love to know more about how certain phrases pass into or out of popular usage in different countries and cultures. clearly, saying "primero Dios" here has a lot to do with being a generally conservative catholic country. but i also wonder if it has to do with other, underlying cultural viewpoints. it seems logical to me that a country populated by this particular race would continue to incorporate such phrases into the common vocabulary. the aztecs ruled themselves and their subjects in a theocracy. the maya also governed theocratically. and in spite of ulterior motives and often barbarous methods, the spanish did a phenomenal job of integrating catholicism into the country's religious, cultural and governmental framework. beyond this, though, i also think of how i might see the world and life if i were a descendant of people who had been oppressed for hundreds of years. because of religion, a caste system, lack of education, or general corruption of the powers that be, i imagine that an inherited sense of resignation to fate would also keep talismanic phrases in style. all this is pure conjecture, and probably doesn't really matter. elidia has found a sense of equilibrium in life between her personal wishes and reality, and that seems very healthy to me. primero Dios, we'll take her out to dinner for her birthday on saturday night.