I've talked about the mission trip I went on before, but only in mentioning it here or there, so I'm going to lay the whole thing out now. It was wonderful and horrible all at the same time and I vowed never to go back. So, The Sister and I grew up Catholic. We didn't attend church anymore, but she was working there as the house cleaner. The college students with the CSA (Catholic Student Association) had been going on mission trips to Mexico since at least the late 1980s. The Sister said we should go. So, we went to a meeting about it and signed up. We were told by the students who had been before that things were absolutely terrible and abysmal down there. They basically equated it to the people living in cardboard boxes and eating garbage from bins, like they were wearing old newspapers for clothes. "They NEED us!!" Well, if they need us, then I'm alright with going and helping some people, right? During Spring Break of 2001, The Sister and I boarded a charter bus with CSA students, a married couple in their thirties (who were named Paul & Jill like our parents), a student girl from Poland (The Sisters' age) & a student boy from Spain (about my age), and the current priest. We drove to Laredo, Texas and pulled over in a parking lot. We had to wait an hour or so and the priest came and collected our toll fees and paper work so it could all be handed to border patrol in one quick move. We entered Mexico at Nuevo Laredo just after sunrise and headed for Saltillo. We stayed at these dorms that were specifically for Catholic mission workers. I think there were bunk beds made of metal and all the girls slept in one room, but I can't really remember. I remember we all (us girls) shared the same bathroom brushing our teeth in the mornings and at night. I also remember gaining a terrace somehow (either on the rooftop or close enough), because The Sister & I would be up there every night watching the sun set. We went to mass every morning presided over by this Irish priest who, when speaking Spanish sounded like he was summoning the devil (he would say mass at most of the villages too), & we would have breakfast there before setting out on an old school bus for "mission" work. So, I'll start off with the main people. So, our current priest was also Irish (I've basically only known Irish priests), but he didn't stay. Did he just get us over the border? Did he do other things and in fact stayed? I don't know, but I only remember him for the journey there and the journey back. Paul and Jill were very unlike my parents except in name. They were nice enough people, just wanted to help, but really just wanted babies, they were only sort of disillusioned by the the trip. The Polish girl, Jola (Yoe-lah), who was an older student at USM there for sciences and the Spanish boy, César (thai-sAR), another USM student (but I don't know for what), were the only non-condescending people in the group (besides The Sister and I). Everyone else were white American students in their early twenties, mainly from around the south eastern US. Every morning we'd have breakfast of goat cheese, eggs, and bread. I'm not sure what everyone else was doing, but I know that the majority of the American kids weren't even acknowledging or thanking the Mexican women and men who were serving us our breakfast (they certainly weren't at my table - just expecting to be served). I always smiled and said Gracias, because it's good manners. It's what you do. I wasn't looking the gain favors, but the Mexican woman who always served my table would smile at me and give me extra bread after that. I don't know Spanish, but I knew enough to say thank you in the language (if I didn't I would have just said "thank you" in English and nodded my head with a smile). Most days we traveled out into the dessert away from Saltillo to a village in "dire need". One day we went to visit The Red Nuns. One day we went to an orphanage. One day we spent time in the market (except for our family friend, her aunt drove in from Monterrey, we met her at the market and she took her niece away for the day). That's the only time I remember our family friend being there on that trip, because she didn't hang around me, so I don't know. This was almost twenty years ago, all of this, and a lot has happened since then. I couldn't tell you which days things happened, or if more than one thing happened in a day. We went to the first village on our first day there. We're all, of course, anticipating squalid conditions and people moaning in anguish. Like the cardboard city you hear about in India, or the horrid conditions of Calcutta. We arrive and some of us (not all of us) are blinking in confusion. There are actual houses here, the adobe kind, with courtyards in the center. They have a church and a well in the center of the village. They have animals for food and animals as pets. It's lovely. The people are clean and well kept and have clothes without holes. They even prepared lunch for us. We had all formed a queue, as we were told to do, but before leaving the vestibule area and entering the building proper, one of the girls who'd been on these trips five times before was hissing at everyone and whispering; "Don't eat their food. They never see this much food in a month, we'll leave it for them." Everyone was nodding. I turned to her and whispered back, "Are you crazy?! Haven't you ever seen Indiana Jones?" She just blinked at me. "You'll eat their food, or you'll hurt their feelings!" She kept trying to reign the others to her side by convincing them to abstain "You might as well slap them in the face! You have to eat or you will greatly insult them!" And The Sister and I pushed past her to the front where the women of the village looked confused and worried. They said something in Spanish, which I don't know what, but I'm sure it was something like, "Is there something wrong? You don't like the food?" So, I just picked up a plate, started putting things on it and smiled and bowed my head at them and in English said, "It all looks so delicious, of course we'll eat!" and then "Muchas Gracias!" with another smile. Their panic melted away instantly and they were all smiles and relieved sighs. More Spanish that I didn't understand, but the gestures were unmistakable; hand's beckoning the other mission people towards the food, and probably "Eat, eat!" I was so angry at that girl. I didn't need to know Spanish and those village women didn't need to know English for them to think something was wrong and wondering why they didn't eat the food they so graciously prepared just for us, and for me to know we were going to be insulting them completely by not eating. That girl had been on five other trips and probably to this village. How many times had she insulted these people? The handing out of goods was no better. Things were collected before hand and brought down with us to distribute at the villages. Only these people didn't actually need anything. I'm sure they were cool with getting some clothes and flour (corn meal probably would have worked too, considering the women looked at the bag of flour like 'what the hell am I supposed to do with more flour?!') and the mardi gras beads meant to "entertain" the children... well they were just going to junk up their beautiful desert. I wasn't one for the desert before this trip. To me deserts are hot and barren and boring and not pretty. Though these villages were in the desert, like in the middle of the desert with nothing to see for miles, there was actually a quiet beauty to the area. These villages made me fall in love with the desert in a way. Basically these people didn't have cars or McMansions or the newest fashions or game consoles and therefor were considered to be living in poverty and needing everything. But from the get-go I saw that these people had everything they needed and nothing they didn't. They might have had one communal toilet, in a building (was that one of a few or the only one?) Where it didn't flush except by pouring water into the tank, and that was done only after several people had urinated in it. This didn't stem from poverty, but from living in the fucking desert and needing to preserve water. It wasn't a hole in the ground surrounded by flies and other bugs and smelling horrible (like most "civilized" white places before indoor plumbing - or even our Port-A-Potties today). It was a little building, they'd built specifically, to house the actual toilet you'd have in your own home. It did go into the ground and no actual handle flushing mechanism, but the water method is just fine on a toilet. Their church was small and modest but very lovely just like the homes. Small, served its purpose, wasn't utilitarian or boring looking, wasn't too much. The square was also small, but still lovely and there were plants growing there around the fountain. There was no lack, only a lack by upper middle class American living standards. I actually could have been happy with a set up like this. I'm not kidding, it was like stumbling into a sort of un-oversaturated paradise. So it angered me when the Mexican men and women, some holding their children were moving through the lines as me and my compatriots were handing out "needed" supplies that the people I was with were bad mouthing them. Right in front of them like they were idiots. "It's so sad about these people. I feel sorry for them. Look at what they don't have. I pity them. Poor things." The Mexican people in line, who'd only moments before seemed a little bored by this weird ritual, now wore faces of shame and confusion. "Uh, hello! Why are you talking bad about these people and right in front of them!" "They don't know English", was the response. "Wanna bet?" and I discreetly gestured towards the couple standing in front of us. "What?" said the arrogant American girl. She couldn't or didn't want to see it. They may not have understood her exact words but they could understand the cadence and feeling of them. They knew they were being shamed, put down, and were confused as to why this would happen. Them knowing English or not, I couldn't let it slide. "How dare you speak about them this way, regardless of whether they "understand" you or not. These people live a wonderful life. They have everything they need. Their village is beautiful. They don't need, want, or deserve any pity. How dare you. Besides we're their guests and that's just rude." She seemed bewildered and shamed and the Mexican couple had changed once again, from boredom to confused and cowed shame to "yeah, bitch, whatever she said! Boom!" They smiled and nodded at me (& I'm certain they didn't get the English, but they knew that I understood them) and moved on down the line. But that's the rub, isn't it? I knew that I was merely a guest, being graciously allowed to come and visit these people; whereas the other Americans felt it was their God given right to stomp all up in there, messing things up in order to help. Some villages went this way to some extent and others didn't. She tried again to get us to not eat food. I gave her a look and I might have growled at her and gave the look to the others and we ate. I didn't hear her or anyone else saying mean things in front of the villages again. There was always mass and honestly I'd had my fill of mass, not being a Catholic anymore. But, I knew how to not be rude. I just stayed outside. Because going in and then leaving in the middle of the service would have been extremely rude. I wasn't the only person to stay outside. Sometimes it was a member of our group, sometimes other villagers. But it was always worth it, because we generally had mass with the villagers (not mass for them, as the other Americans were want to believe) at night before departing. Oh, the stars out in the desert without electrical street lights was glorious! And the twinkle of candles in the lanterns was picturesque. Tell me again how these people needed us. They didn't. We really needed them if we were ready to see. If you're still confused. These villagers might have been wearing modern-ish clothing, but they were living the way they'd always lived... and they were happy with their normal life, unlike most American who have "everything" and are miserable. On a different day we went to see The Red Nuns. I've tried searching for which order this might be, but I have no idea. I only know that they were all Mexican ladies who were in whatever particular order this was in, they didn't speak English, and they wore maroon and white habits, as evidenced from the photo. I don't know why we were there unless it was just mandatory to visit a Catholic organization? They served us lunch of baked chicken (I think akin to what my family friend makes, which she learned from her aunt) and we played volleyball with them. They were adorable and fun, unlike their white English speaking counterparts in the states (most nuns I've encountered are weird... and certainly not friendly or fun). I did not play volleyball with them, I just watched the game. I also didn't take any photo's during the trip because I didn't have a camera. But after the trip, there was a wrap-up meeting of sorts and whoever had taken photos, they could leave the ones they didn't want on a table so that those of us who didn't have a camera could have pictures if we wanted. I took from the table only two photos; this one of The Red Nuns and the one of us driving through the desert. On a different day, the group split up. It was the only time we split up. You could choose, either visiting the Barrio's or visiting the orphans. I was so disillusioned by this trip and of the people in "great need" who, in fact, were not, that I passed on visiting the needy in the Barrio's. Our dorm complex was IN the Barrio's for Christ's sake and if it was anything like what I'd been seeing all week, then I figured that visiting lonely children was a better use of my time. It was The Sister and I, the veteran Mission girl (you would think she would have chosen the Barrio's?), and the older couple Paul and Jill. Our family friend, Jola, & César chose the Barrio's. So, we get there and it's a nice enough place. Definitely nothing like what I imagine all orphanages to look like which are that of a Dickensonian orphan asylum. The workers also seem nice and the kids seem taken care of, it just seems that, like with most systems, there's just not enough money coming in or people wanting to take the job of doing the daily taking care of. But, they were not neglected and seemed rather happy. There was one girl who was brash and bossy and she was really interesting looking to The Sister and I. She looked like an ant, like an ant in a cartoon (A Bugs Life or ANTS), as her face was in the shape of a diamond. Very hard angels and not unlike stone reliefs of Aztec people. Her skin was smooth an taught over wide-set feature. She was pretty, I know it sounds like she might not have been with the whole ant thing, but she was also very far removed from what we see on a daily basis. But, she seemed like she was used to getting things her way or having all the foreigners fawn over her. We wanted to move off and spend time with a different girl, but she found us just as interesting and unusual. Apparently most people she sees are either dark skinned with dark hair and eyes or light skinned with dark hair and dark eyes or light skinned with light hair and light eyes. She'd never seen slightly olive skin complected people with dark hair and light eyes. She actually kind of demanded we stay so she could figured out the mystery, so had to ask Mission Nazi girl what she was saying. We finally managed to move away from her and I'm not sure where The Sister went, but I saw a girl sitting alone, so I went to see her. I waved hello and she waved back. She was sucking on a lollipop and was about eight or nine. The lady worker came out and in broken English said the girl was deaf. But that meant little to me, since I couldn't have spoken to her in Spanish anyways. Hand gestures is what I was working with. It seemed to me like the other girls weren't nice to her. Perhaps they weren't mean, but I felt like she was not included a lot of the time. We were supposed to move around and spend time with all the girls, but no one in our group had any inclinations of spending time with this girl and I was happiest with her, so I just stayed with her the entire time. We talked a little with hand gestures, but mainly watched the others in the play yard or else looked towards the mountains. I would have taken her home to be my little sister if I'd had money or means to actually take care of her. I suppose I felt like I was hanging out with myself. I was always the odd girl out with people not wanting to get to know me or include me in things and I'd learned to be OK with that. Also I had severe hearing problems when I was younger. My ear drums would burst and for spans of time I was quite literally, if only momentarily (a few days to a week), deaf. When we left Paul and Jill were cooing over the possibility of adoption. They seemed to like Aztec Ant girl and another of the really pretty ones. My deaf girl wasn't ugly at all and all those girls were adorable, it's just my girl was a little plain compared to Paul and Jill's top two. They hadn't even realized there was a girl they'd missed. I often think about her and hope she's living a wonderfully happy life as she'd be out of orphanage now, regardless of whether she'd been adopted or not (though in the years following this, I hoped awesome people would adopt her). When we all regrouped I asked Jola and César about the Barrio's. They weren't picture-esque and wonderful like the villages, mainly because it was the city, but they actually weren't bad off. There were people worse off (with housing) in America. So, it was nothing like had been described to them. It's not like the photo's you'll see of the Barrio's in Saltillo if you do an internet search. It looked much like where our dorms were (considering we were in the Barrios where we were staying). Sort of like the Mexican version of the French Quarter in New Orleans. Run down, a little ragged, but nothing horrible. The next visit was to the market. We were spending the entire afternoon there; shopping and having lunch. This is when our family friends aunt drove in to come and whisk her away. She might not have even returned with us on the bus, I'm thinking. I want to say that was the start of her week long holiday with relatives and that her uncle would be flying her home.
There was a very old Basilica across the street (but we didn't tour it) and a vintage Beatle parked in front of it. I fumbled my way through purchasing a few souvenirs. Something for myself and an item each for my parents. I'd been given the phrase, "How much is this?" and told to just hold up and item of interest and say the Spanish phrase and the stall keeper would say a number. I was OK with Spanish numbers, so I started shopping. Except I kept getting strange looks. The women would make a sour face before telling me a price. When I was in a stall run by men and they snickered and smiled, I knew something was wrong and went to ask someone in our group. Turns out I kept holding up items and asking, "How much am I?" through five stalls. So embarrassing. Doubly embarrassing because I don't want to end up being like my mom and yet she has this story about visiting her friend in Costa Rica and getting the word wrong; to which the mom gasped, the dad looked angry, the little sister giggled, & the friend gave my mom a look to just shut up (later telling her that instead of saying "I'm hungry for more" she'd said she was "hungry for a man". She won't tell me exactly, but it was something akin to my questo/questa with in the phrase mishap). So both of us had made a faux pas of a sexualized nature in a Latin American country. Then we were all going to eat in the market and we chose a place. They were actually sitting area's next to each other, but each square space was served by a different vendor. So even though we were all near each other, we'd chosen different eating spaces. Most of them were wary to eat there, not in the safety confines of our barracks. The Mission Nazi girl told them it was fine, that she'd eaten at the market on all of her trips, before I had a chance to roll my eyes while saying, "I'm sure it's fine..." The Sister, César, & I ordered pizza, much to our groups annoyance. "It's just pizza..." like we were ordering brains or something. But also it wasn't "just" pizza. It wasn't like it was a miniature Digiorno or something. It was Mexican people doing their interpretation of pizza and that sounded exciting. It was pizza, but the crust wasn't just flour (perhaps cornmeal and flour together?), and there was pepperoni and mozzarella, but there was another white cheese mixed in because it tasted tangier than just mozzarella. Also there was absolutely not pizza sauce. No sauce of any kind. It was the most delicious pizza either of us had ever eaten and The Sister and I have since started ordering our pizza's without sauce. Right next to the market was a grocery store and I wanted to go in. The group was all aghast! "You can't! It's not in the market! It could be dangerous!" It was approximately five paces from where we sat eating, not down a million roads into a part of town I might have gotten lost in. So, I went in and looked around. We didn't have Mexican markets in my town yet, but now that we do & I've been to them I can say, "Yep, same thing." Lots of packaged (& fresh) food you'll find only in Mexican markets, holy candles, some home goods, lots of spices, etc. They also sold things individually, which reminded me of the black grocery stores dad would deliver to. It'd be a box of crackers meant to sell, but they'd open it and you could guy just one packet of crackers. If it was individually wrapped in the larger box, then it was opened and sold this way; in this grocery store in Mexico and in the black stores at home. I thought that was really cool, the similarity. I'd found it cool when I first saw this trend back home because it's actually really logical, especially if you don't have a lot of money. You get what you need and not a lot more that you don't need. A guy in the store had just purchased a pack of cigarettes and left before I exited. Then to my surprise, after opening it, he didn't take one, but was yelling out that they were for sale. It was thrilling! I wanted to experience purchasing just one cigarette from someone. I was like the old films. So, I (correctly) asked how much, it was a small coin price. I paid the man and he handed me a cigarette out of the pack. When I saunted the few steps back to the group most of them are wide-eyed and scared. They weren't scared because I was smoking and they were not smokers. No, it was that I'd stepped foot out in to "Real Mexico (like we weren't already there... *sigh*)" and gone into a store that wasn't a designated Mission hot spot, and I purchased something, out there, from a Real Mexican. At first I thought it was that I had a cigarette that I intended to smoke. Secondly I thought it might be the whole "drugs" thing, but when I said, "I saw him purchase and open them, he couldn't have slipped drugs in there." they looked at me like I'd grown two heads. It was clearly not about drugs. They were weird. I'd have toured the Basilica if I'd had the money (it wasn't much, but it was more than I had left), even though it too wasn't on the Mission hot spot list. Obviously Jola, César, nor The Sister are included in this. They didn't want to go to the shop with me, but they also didn't see a problem with any of it. The four of us enjoyed our time and it was funny because César couldn't understand a word anyone one saying and it bothered him. I could have told him it was like Haiti, New Orleans, or Quebec French vs France French. The New World changed things. He could make out a stray word here or there, but the sentences made about as much sense to him as they did to me. We enjoyed visiting the villages and seeing the Red Nuns and all that. But the weird bureaucracy of Mission life rubbed us the wrong way. We didn't like leaving all those needless things with the villagers to then have to deal with or the way most of the Mission people treated them. We also didn't like being led to believe that people needed "saving" when all they might have needed was some nice, relaxed company. It felt like a sham, so we were all resolute on never joining another Mission Trip again.
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AuthorA girl from South Mississippi who finds herself in exploration. Archives
November 2019
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