I went to Mexico City from May 28th to June 11th, 2011. Only when I got back did I notice a few things...
Well actually, I noticed some things while I was there too. I'm just reflecting on them at the moment.
In Mexico City, I am a definite foreigner. Without my friend being a constant companion on the many adventures had, I would have been lost, taken advantage of, and other misgivings that I am still naive about. Aside from all of that, my skin color is something that is on my mind constantly for reasons dealing with racism, white supremacy and the reactions that pale colored (American) strangers have when I walk by them. But I thought about this less in Mexico City. Brown-skinned people were more prevalent (at least in some neighborhoods), and places were crowded most of the time. So, my feelings of invisibility took on a different tone. Sure, I stuck out like a sore thumb, and there were fewer people that visibly looked like they were from the African Diaspora. But something was different about my perceptions of my treatment. My guard was immediately lowered. I dunno, I can't explain it. The wolf-whistles, alleged cat-calling, the struggle of English/Spanish conversations, it all made me feel like I existed in a different way. I felt visible and not ignored like I do when around predominantly white people in the United States. Maybe it was because I'm a black foreigner. Who knows.
Black people seem rare in Mexico City. I only saw a few a day (less than ten). During my first week, a few women from the Haiti tent (a part of a world fair event) were, according to my friend, excited to see me and wanted to know where I was from. I felt so ashamed and apologetic for my lack of language comprehension. Even more-so later when another woman from Uganda approached and wanted to know where I was from. I felt I let them down telling them I was from the United States, living in Arizona. No story swapping or bonding would come from these encounters, no thanks to my limited Spanish vocabulary.
There are instances in the U.S. where persons from the African continent ask if I am from Africa, but I was close-minded to the fact that Africans would want to migrate or seek refuge in Latin American countries as well.
In summary, I guess because of the substantially lesser numbers of black folk in Mexico City (whether they be refugees, residents or tourists), I felt way more visible, but realize there just may be an invisibility issue moreso in Mexico than in the states, where in/visibility of blacks is much different.
Showing posts with label Mexico City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mexico City. Show all posts
16 June, 2011
15 June, 2011
Mexico City: The Swastika
I went to Mexico City from May 28th to June 11th, 2011. Only when I got back did I notice a few things...
I can usually spot racist/white supremacist symbols from a mile away, and being in Mexico City was no exception. My first shock, a visibly same-sexed male couple displaying their affections...and one of them wearing a black t-shirt with the German eagle and a swastika! It immediately threw me off and set me on alert. Panicked, I passed by the couple with my friend and asked her urgently, "did you just see that?!" After retelling what I saw, we made the decision to circle back and take another look (first look for her). Pretending to take a picture of the angel of liberty, she too saw the couple and the shirt. They went to sit down and display their passionate embrace.
I really did see this. I was thrown by the fact that dude was gay, a shade of brown AND wearing this shirt! Did he know the history behind it? What's the reason? I was thoroughly confused, but the matter was not pursued due to my massive language barrier.
Mexico City has a 'Museum of Tolerance' (probably not the actual name) that my friend and I visited and the first in-your-face exhibits had to do with the holocaust. For less than ten U.S. dollars people could see this and other displays of genocide. My friend's future mother-in-law made a joke saying something along the lines of 'if it's in a museum, it doesn't exist in Mexico City.' That is to say that tolerance and other things are not evident outside of museums. It made me wonder.
Especially when my friend and I went to an alternative clothing shop in a different neighborhood. Aside from the t-shirts and skateboard decks, the first thing my eyes averted to was a leather wallet...with a swastika stitched onto it! What gives?! I could only hope that this is some reclamation of a symbol that initially had positive roots, but has, since the Third Reich, been associated with evil, racism, and white supremacy.
It makes me wonder how deep the racism and light-skinned supremacy goes in Mexico City. It may or may not be a connection to such. More thoughts on that to come, I guess.
I can usually spot racist/white supremacist symbols from a mile away, and being in Mexico City was no exception. My first shock, a visibly same-sexed male couple displaying their affections...and one of them wearing a black t-shirt with the German eagle and a swastika! It immediately threw me off and set me on alert. Panicked, I passed by the couple with my friend and asked her urgently, "did you just see that?!" After retelling what I saw, we made the decision to circle back and take another look (first look for her). Pretending to take a picture of the angel of liberty, she too saw the couple and the shirt. They went to sit down and display their passionate embrace.
I really did see this. I was thrown by the fact that dude was gay, a shade of brown AND wearing this shirt! Did he know the history behind it? What's the reason? I was thoroughly confused, but the matter was not pursued due to my massive language barrier.
Mexico City has a 'Museum of Tolerance' (probably not the actual name) that my friend and I visited and the first in-your-face exhibits had to do with the holocaust. For less than ten U.S. dollars people could see this and other displays of genocide. My friend's future mother-in-law made a joke saying something along the lines of 'if it's in a museum, it doesn't exist in Mexico City.' That is to say that tolerance and other things are not evident outside of museums. It made me wonder.
Especially when my friend and I went to an alternative clothing shop in a different neighborhood. Aside from the t-shirts and skateboard decks, the first thing my eyes averted to was a leather wallet...with a swastika stitched onto it! What gives?! I could only hope that this is some reclamation of a symbol that initially had positive roots, but has, since the Third Reich, been associated with evil, racism, and white supremacy.
It makes me wonder how deep the racism and light-skinned supremacy goes in Mexico City. It may or may not be a connection to such. More thoughts on that to come, I guess.
14 June, 2011
Mexico City: My name is...
I went to Mexico City from May 28th to June 11th, 2011. Only when I got back did I notice a few things...
My name is apparently hard to pronounce. I've had to correct people all my life, with few exceptions. I've had to introduce and repeat myself several times before either giving up out of frustration and accepting the attempt. I've had to correct whatever pronunciation came up when people try to read my name off a piece of paper (or screen). My general goal was to mash it into people's memories until they got it correct. The only people who got the easy way out (by calling me D) were the ones who had my name down 'to a science.'
However, I never considered that the difficulty in pronunciation was beyond those born and raised with English as their first language [note: most Americans got it right eventually, due to my stubbornness and initial intolerance growing up]. Most people with first languages that aren't English seemed to have an even harder time. I noticed a pattern that made me more tolerant of my name being mis-pronounced. In Mexico City, everyone got it wrong regardless of the corrections. The phonetics and the spelling of my name seemed to clash irreconcilably, to the point where I had to train myself to hear their version of my name, or else I would have never responded. I thought my stubborn repetition and correction would come off as rude after a while.
Anywho, a revelation came up that has since grown on me. When I showed my i.d. card to my friend and her parents to show the spelling of my name to help along the pronunciation process, she saw my middle name.
"Cherone?"
"Yes."
"I like your middle name better."
And so it went. On and off, I trained myself to be called by a name no one (including my family) has used until now. My friend made it a point to inform her friends of my middle name after failed attempts to pronounce my first name. There seemed to be agreement that my middle name was easier to pronounce, unlike my first name. To get me more into the idea, my friend called me "Ms. Cherone" and "Dr. Cherone." Actually, it didn't sound too bad.
I noticed something else. My friend's (and her friends) names also weren't their first names! I took a peek at one's CC used to pay for some food and realized this, and, for some reason it came as a shock to me. Why weren't their first names used? I'm not entirely sure, but I began to like the idea of being called by my middle name. I still favor my first name heavily, but if transcending language barriers means that Cherone trumps Deseure, then I'm more willing to make that change. For that, I dedicated my blog-site url to such, as well as to learning something.
I learned to accept the fact that, maybe my name is just too difficult to pronounce especially for those whom English is not their first language. I shouldn't be a pronunciation snob if there are alternatives (though D still won't be one of them with exceptions of my close friends using such). If I chose to stay in the U.S, I would still be naive to the idea that everyone should be able to pronounce my name correctly with no exceptions.
Friends have taught me a lot of things, and I thank them for encouraging the adoption of another name/moniker. Cherone, or Ms. Cherone.
My name is apparently hard to pronounce. I've had to correct people all my life, with few exceptions. I've had to introduce and repeat myself several times before either giving up out of frustration and accepting the attempt. I've had to correct whatever pronunciation came up when people try to read my name off a piece of paper (or screen). My general goal was to mash it into people's memories until they got it correct. The only people who got the easy way out (by calling me D) were the ones who had my name down 'to a science.'
However, I never considered that the difficulty in pronunciation was beyond those born and raised with English as their first language [note: most Americans got it right eventually, due to my stubbornness and initial intolerance growing up]. Most people with first languages that aren't English seemed to have an even harder time. I noticed a pattern that made me more tolerant of my name being mis-pronounced. In Mexico City, everyone got it wrong regardless of the corrections. The phonetics and the spelling of my name seemed to clash irreconcilably, to the point where I had to train myself to hear their version of my name, or else I would have never responded. I thought my stubborn repetition and correction would come off as rude after a while.
Anywho, a revelation came up that has since grown on me. When I showed my i.d. card to my friend and her parents to show the spelling of my name to help along the pronunciation process, she saw my middle name.
"Cherone?"
"Yes."
"I like your middle name better."
And so it went. On and off, I trained myself to be called by a name no one (including my family) has used until now. My friend made it a point to inform her friends of my middle name after failed attempts to pronounce my first name. There seemed to be agreement that my middle name was easier to pronounce, unlike my first name. To get me more into the idea, my friend called me "Ms. Cherone" and "Dr. Cherone." Actually, it didn't sound too bad.
I noticed something else. My friend's (and her friends) names also weren't their first names! I took a peek at one's CC used to pay for some food and realized this, and, for some reason it came as a shock to me. Why weren't their first names used? I'm not entirely sure, but I began to like the idea of being called by my middle name. I still favor my first name heavily, but if transcending language barriers means that Cherone trumps Deseure, then I'm more willing to make that change. For that, I dedicated my blog-site url to such, as well as to learning something.
I learned to accept the fact that, maybe my name is just too difficult to pronounce especially for those whom English is not their first language. I shouldn't be a pronunciation snob if there are alternatives (though D still won't be one of them with exceptions of my close friends using such). If I chose to stay in the U.S, I would still be naive to the idea that everyone should be able to pronounce my name correctly with no exceptions.
Friends have taught me a lot of things, and I thank them for encouraging the adoption of another name/moniker. Cherone, or Ms. Cherone.
13 June, 2011
Mexico City: Dogs
I went to Mexico City from May 28th to June 11th, 2011. Only when I got back did I notice a few things...
The dogs. They seem to keep to themselves, or they seem to be checking out other dogs. The ones with owners were extremely obedient, and the ones without seemed to have some sort of agenda or other that didn't involve humans. When walking around with my friend and her parents, there were excited dogs, stoic dogs, nonchalant dogs, stray dogs, but the dogs never barked at me (or her). Not that I can recall. I mean, dogs bark, but they always seemed to be barking at other dogs or something/one else. Especially at night.
When I got back to Scottsdale however, I decided to go on a walk to the store, and on my way home, I was about to walk past someone with two dogs on leashes. The larger dog growled and barked a bit before being quieted by the owner. A few more guttural growls and more barking as I walked past, with the owner telling the dog to be quiet. I'm not sure if it was just for my sake (like I perceived for it to be) but it got my mind to thinking. I was never barked at in Mexico City. Maybe dogs relate to humans differently there.
Of course I took account of my racial identity upon being startled, then reflecting on this experience. Especially since Scottsdale (and most of AZ for that matter) is predominantly white (in general terms).
A part of me wants to go back to the Mexico City version of dog-human relations. There were even Great Danes that walking/running around with owners that didn't bark at us (me or my friend), and though there was general anxiety, only one Great Dane barked (or bellowed)...at a smaller dog. Not to mention the street smarts. These dogs know traffic (and how not to get run over). I don't know why I'm so fascinated at this. Maybe because being back in AZ (which means back to dogs barking at me) made me realize that things can actually be different and peaceful on so many levels. Down to the smallest dog.
The dogs. They seem to keep to themselves, or they seem to be checking out other dogs. The ones with owners were extremely obedient, and the ones without seemed to have some sort of agenda or other that didn't involve humans. When walking around with my friend and her parents, there were excited dogs, stoic dogs, nonchalant dogs, stray dogs, but the dogs never barked at me (or her). Not that I can recall. I mean, dogs bark, but they always seemed to be barking at other dogs or something/one else. Especially at night.
When I got back to Scottsdale however, I decided to go on a walk to the store, and on my way home, I was about to walk past someone with two dogs on leashes. The larger dog growled and barked a bit before being quieted by the owner. A few more guttural growls and more barking as I walked past, with the owner telling the dog to be quiet. I'm not sure if it was just for my sake (like I perceived for it to be) but it got my mind to thinking. I was never barked at in Mexico City. Maybe dogs relate to humans differently there.
Of course I took account of my racial identity upon being startled, then reflecting on this experience. Especially since Scottsdale (and most of AZ for that matter) is predominantly white (in general terms).
A part of me wants to go back to the Mexico City version of dog-human relations. There were even Great Danes that walking/running around with owners that didn't bark at us (me or my friend), and though there was general anxiety, only one Great Dane barked (or bellowed)...at a smaller dog. Not to mention the street smarts. These dogs know traffic (and how not to get run over). I don't know why I'm so fascinated at this. Maybe because being back in AZ (which means back to dogs barking at me) made me realize that things can actually be different and peaceful on so many levels. Down to the smallest dog.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)