the shadow knows

Living in Mexico, is often like living in Plato's Cave.

Plato's take on objective truth is that humans are like chained prisoners with a fire burning behind them. The only thing they experience are shadows cast by the fire. They never see the objects themselves. They then mistake the shadows as being the actual truth.

I have always wondered if the Mexican poet Octavio Paz had Plato's Cave in mind when he wrote about the masks Mexicans wear in their daily lives. 

The Mexican, whether young or old, crillo  or mestizo, general or laborer or lawyer, seems to me to be a person who shuts himself away to protect himself: his face is a mask and so is his smile. In his harsh solitude, which is both barbed and courteous, everything serves him as a defense: silence and words, politeness and disdain, irony and resignation.

Now and then, I pick up my copy of Paz's The Labyrinth of Solitude (a book I would highly recommend to anyone who takes living in Mexico seriously) to renew my attempts to better understand my Mexican neighbors.

I am constantly perplexed at the contradictions I see daily. Neighbors who are friendly on the surface, but who are still obviously distant -- even in personal conversations. And who chuckle at the northern notion that "neighbor" is a laudatory term.

I do not expect to ever crack the enigma. I doubt I ever could as an outsider. Certain attitudes simply become culturally hardwired for those who grow up here.

I didn't grow up here. I grew up in a little logging town in the coastal range of Oregon -- a culture that would be as easily baffling to my Mexican neighbors as theirs is to me. And I do not anticipate being able to do anything more than see Mexico through the eyes of people who see the contradictions -- even if they may not be able to fully describe them.

For me, Octavio Paz is one of those guides. Along with Jorge Castañeda. The fact that both of them were men of the left helps to explain their fondness for Hegelian contradictions. Or, at least, seeing the world through the prism of Hegelian contradictions. And I am easily seduced by the syllogism.

Most of us northerners are usually happy to settle for seeing our Mexican neighbors through eyes that are forgiving of contradiction -- and, at best, vaguely patronizing; at worst, imperialistic lite.

And, viewed only on the surface, Mexico appears to be made up of people who accept fate with a certain elan -- if not fatalism. But, by being satisfied with the surface, we miss the interesting truth under the surface.

And it is not just Mexicans who wear masks. I suspect the mask analogy is so popular here because of Paz's chapter on "Mexican Masks." Because physical masks are so prevalent here, Paz's analogy in his chapter "Mexican Masks" seems to have a dash of Platonic truth.

But we all wear masks. And for the same reason -- to protect ourselves. From one another. But also from reality.

Any party is a testing ground for masks. You can almost see the woman standing in the corner when you approach her. And there is very likelihood anyone will be able to slip past its Lone Ranger ambiguity.

During my stay in flight school in Laredo, I attended more than my share of receptions. Almost the first question asked by the wives of senior officers was: "And what does your father do for a living?"

Of course, it translated into: "Are you someone worth spending my time on -- or should I go talk to that young officer over there?" I usually made the choice easy by responding with something whimsical. "He runs guns to Bolivia" or "I never knew him. He was executed in the early 50s as a Communist spy." Either one usually sent my interlocutor scurrying away. My mask remained firmly in place.

Several of my old friends and family members have told me they read my blog for only one reason -- they want to hear what I had been doing between my 20s and 60s. Apparently, I have a reputation for not being very forthcoming with my life. At least, not until stories ferment for several decades.

Maybe that is why I am so fascinated with Paz's observations -- observations that reflect one of my favorite Cole Porter couplets: "Paree will still be laughing after ev'ry one of us disappears,/ But never once forget, her laughter is the laughter that hides the tears."

Mexicans use their face and smile to mask themselves, but so do I.

And I will put a stack of new Benito Juarez notes on the barrel head that you do, as well.