talking the talk

The deed is done.

Yesterday I presented my lecture as part of our church’s Cultural Awareness series.  My topic was: “Who is a Mexican: The Mestizo Myth.”

How did it go?  The actor in me says: “You could have done better.”  The writer in me says: “There wasn’t enough time.”  The appellate lawyer in me says exactly the same thing he says after each Supreme Court argument: “You nailed it.”

I will leave it to others to write the review.  But I thoroughly enjoyed sharing my research with an appreciative audience.

I promised Jennifer Rose I would at least publish my notes.  It appears I can do a bit better.  I have retained my notes with commentary.  It was rather easy to expand it into something that approximated my presentation.

It is long – too long for one of my usual essays.  It was a one-hour presentation.  Feel duly warned.

Here we go.
 

Who is a Mexican?:
The Mestizo Myth

It is April 1519. Hernán Cortés de Monroy y Pizarro, the son of a respectable, but impoverished, Spanish family, stands on the deck of his flag ship, looking at the coast of Mexico -- the land he is about to invade. What is he thinking?

How am I supposed to know? I’m an historian; not a psychic. But I am positive one idea that did not enter his Castillian head was the notion that he and his soldiers were about to establish a new race -- an idea that would take 400 years to grow. But grow it did.

If you return to church services here on Sunday morning at 10 (and I hope you do), Nancy will be standing behind her electric piano over there -- and she just may ask you to turn to number 132 in the hymnals (“the hard-bound books,” as she would have it) to sing that old hymn of the church “Power in the Blood.”

Coincidentally, that is today’s topic. Not the theological power of the blood. But the secular power. The blood of Mexico.

Or to put it another way: “Who is a Mexican?” It sounds like a simple question. But it is a question that has been floating around since Cortes waded onto the beaches of the future Veracruz. And the answer has changed over the centuries.
This afternoon, I would like to walk you through the various answers over the last 500 years. And we can talk a little bit about where the definition is now -- and where it may be heading. Because it will change.  I am certain of that.

I wish I had a film crew with me this last week. Knowing I would be standing up here in front of you, I decided to ask random people that question – Who is a Mexican?

The most common answer? “Anyone born in Mexico.” But that leaves out a lot of people – and it may include people who other Mexicans do not consider to be Mexican – and some who do not consider themselves Mexican.

Let me tell you three stories to illustrate just how tricky that question is. At least, psychologically.

Story #1. Last November, Barra de Navidad celebrated the 450^th anniversary of its brush with global history. You know the story. You heard it from me and from Luis Davila last year.

How, in 1564, the Spanish built two galleons and two tenders to cross the vast Pacific from Barra de Navidad to conquer the Philippine Islands, and to set up trading centers with China. That fleet was commanded by a financial bureaucrat, Miguel López de Legazpi. That part of the mission went without a hitch.

The more difficult part was getting back to Mexico. The known currents and trade winds all went one way -- west. That did not deter a friar, Andrés de Urdaneta, who was placed in charge of the return voyage. With a bit of logic and a lot more luck, he discovered an east-bound current -- and the rest is history. 
And what about Legazpi and Urdaneta? The great Spanish explorers. They are still honored here as heroes with streets named after them in Barra de Navidad. Plus a nifty monument on the jetty.

Last November, the town pulled out all the stops to celebrate that first voyage. A lot of state and local politicians showed up. Along with the Philippine ambassador to Mexico. For days, there was live music. Pageants. Almost everyone in town got dressed up as a pirate or a friar or a slave.

There was also a parade to welcome home the cross that once stood in the shipyard where the galleons were built. If you have not heard Luis Davila tell that story, you should search him out -- or ask him when he is here next Thursday. A grand parade it was.

I was there shooting photographs and noticed something unusual -- groups of red and yellow balloons festooned together. I saw a realtor acquaintance and asked her why those colors.  Red and yellow. She had to ask one of the organizers. They represented the beads of the rosary.

I thanked her and then said: ”Those are also the royal colors of Spain. Red and yellow.  I thought the parade might be honoring the Spanish heroes Legazpi and Urdaneta.” She appeared shocked, and responded: “They weren’t Spanish; they were Mexican.”

Story #2. I occasionally visit the Indian school out at Pinal Villa. As you probably know, the compound provides living space and food for some of the migrant workers who work in our local fields. But, for me, the central part of the compound is the school where the children, after spending the day in the fields, attend classes in the evening. Most of the migrant workers are Mixtec Indians from Guerrero and Oaxaca states.

Over the past six years, I have had three memorable conversations with boys at the school. I had asked each the same question (“How are your enjoying school?”), and each answered similarly. With a grin filled with pride, they said: “I know more than Mexican boys.”

Story #3. One of the first conversations I had with a Mexican neighbor several years ago involved the birth of his first child. His wife had gone to a clinic to give birth. When my neighbor’s mother returned with the news he had a new son, his first question was: “Is he brown or white?”

Now, what do those three stories have in common? A well-educated Mexican woman who claims explorers of the Spanish Empire were Mexican. Mixteco boys who see themselves as something other than Mexican. A Mexican man concerned about the skin tone of his son.

Where does all of that come from? If you know me well, you know how I am going to answer. It comes from the long history of this country where we choose to live.

Let me give you a little refresher from last year’s history course. But this time, keep in mind our question. Who is a Mexican? We will take a look at five periods of history: before the conquest, the colonial era, independence, the revolution, and now.

1.Pre-Conquest

Before the Spanish arrived in Mexico in the 16^th century, the various pieces of Mexico had been ruled by a succession of Indian tribes. One conquering the other. When Cortes arrived, there were at least 150 separate tribes in what we call Mexico.

They broke into two groups: the urbanized cultures with grand architecture and hierarchical societies (the Aztecs, the Maya, the Purepecha around Lake Patzcuaro, the Tlaxcala) -- the places we visit on tours with Dan Patman. The second group were nomadic tribes -- mainly in the northern portion of the country.

When the Spanish arrived, who was a Mexican?

No one. At least, in the way we use that term. There were the Mexica -- one of the tribes of the Aztec Empire. We get the word “Mexico” from them.

But none of the other 149 or so tribes would have considered themselves Mexican. Remember the Mixtec Indians I mentioned earlier. They are listed as one tribe, but they spoke 50 different languages. There was no united nation-state of Indians. Had there been, Cortes would have been in deep trouble. And my lecture would have ended with that delightful hat.

2. Colonial Period

That all changed when Cortes invaded. The Spanish arrived as conquerors, not as settlers. They were here to be lords. And the Indians were to be their serfs. The Spanish ruled the land; the Indians tilled and mined it. And within a few years, most of what the Spanish came to conquer was theirs.

The conquered land was primarily where the civilized Indians had ruled.
If you had asked the Spanish or most of the surviving Indians: “Are you a Mexican?”, they would have been baffled. Mexico’s nationality was defined as its place in the great Spanish Empire. They were subjects of New Spain. Subjects of the Spanish crown. Mexico did not exist.

Because they did not come as settlers, Spanish men outnumbered Spanish women by over 10 to 1. What happened next was predictable. Babies born of Spanish fathers and Indian women started popping out all over. Including from the conqueror himself and his Indian mistress.

That presented a dual problem for the Spanish. The first was social. The Spanish were lords. The Indians were slaves – at least, until 1542 when the Catholic church convinced the Spanish crown to prohibit enslaving the Indians. Slavery was then replaced with what amounted to a feudal serf system. But how were the mixed children to be addressed socially? They were neither Indian nor Spanish.

The second problem was moral. The church could not stop the fraternization. So, it started marrying mixed status couples. And legitimizing the children. Mixed marriages were later outlawed, and, to no one’s surprise, mixed race babies continued being born. Now, the with the stigma of illegitimacy.

When Indian slavery was abolished (after the Indian population was reduced by 90% through disease), the crown authorized shipping African slaves to Mexico for 60 years -- from 1580 to 1640. That added a third component in the racial mix. Spanish and Indian blood was soon mixing with the black slaves.

Thus arose the caste system – casta, in Spanish.

The Spanish brought with them what sounds to our modern ears as an odd -- if not racist -- view on nationality. The year that Columbus sailed for the East Indies (1492) two other big events happened in Spain. 1. The Moors were expelled from their last bit of land in Spain -- ending 780 years of Moorish occupation. 2. The Spanish monarchs expelled their Jewish subjects from their kingdoms.

The Spanish, having been a conquered people themselves for almost 8 centuries, were obsessed with the notion of “purity of blood.” To have “purity of blood,” a Spaniard needed to prove he descended from 3 generations of unblemished Christian ancestry. And out of that obsession, the Spanish Inquisition was born -- to ensure that Spaniards did not carry Moorish or Jewish blood.

To maintain “purity of blood” in Mexico, the Spanish set up a caste system. It started rather simply. At the top were the Spanish -- all of them initially born in Spain. Indians ranked below. And African slaves below them. It was the mixing of the three classifications that was to cause confusion.

The mixing started in the first year of the conquest. A child born of a Spanish father and an Indian woman had a secific name. Mestizo. That name applied only to that combination when the caste system was initiated. Full-blood Spanish father; full-blood Indian mother. 50-50. Any other combination would have a different name.

The Spanish added a complication within their own families. Within a generation, a new classification was created when Spaniards born in Spain bore children in Mexico. Those children were called Criollos -- to distinguish them from Spaniards born in Spain. That mere fact of birthplace put those whites in a lower legal and social position than Spain-born Spaniards. And that classification was about to play a huge part in the story of Mexico.

And what would happen when a Mestizo man -- born of a Spanish father and an Indian woman -- married a woman with Indian and African blood? To the Spanish, that was easy. They simply created a new category.

Eventually, of course, the categories multiplied. They finally stopped somewhere around 16.

Mexican Castes

Father	Mother	Classification
Spanish	Indian	Mestizo
Spanish	Mestizo	Castizo
Spanish	Castizo	Espomolo
Spanish	Black African	Mulatto
Spanish	Mulatto	Moor
Spanish	Moor	Albino
Spanish	Albino	Throwback
Throwback	Indian	Wolf
Wolf	Indian	Zambiago
Zambiago	Indian	Cambujo
Cambujo	Mulatto	Alvarazado
Alvarazado	Mulatto	Borquino
Borquino	Mulatto	Coyote
Coyote	Mulatto	Chamizo
Chamizo	Mestizo	Coyote-Mestizo
Coyote-Mestizo	Mestizo	Ahi te Estas

It became impossible to track each birth with any precision. Government officials even commissioned paintings to assist them in classifying the mixed races. If you go online, you can see those paintings. Some are quite good art.

The castes mattered. Depending on where you were classified, your legal and social rights would be affected. The amount of taxes due. Who you could marry. Where you could live. Your eligibility for public office and employment. Entrance into the priesthood. Emigration to Spain’s other territories.

The classifications became so complicated, and the incentive to be classified in a higher category were so great, that a new occupation was created in New Spain -- forger of genealogical records.

What New Spain ended up with was a very stratified, hierarchical society on paper, and a society that acted differently in operation. Otherwise, nothing could have been done.

Remember last year when we talked about why Mexico seems to be a country with strict laws, but little enforcement? You can see the roots in the caste system. What existed on paper only approximates what exists in reality.

The caste system applied primarily to the central portion of Mexico. The parts first captured by the Spanish and where the “civilized” Indians lived.

But a parallel society was forming. There were a group of Spanish subjects (mainly Mestizos) who were tired of living in a society where they did not fit -- where they were neither Spanish nor Indian, and neither society would accept them. The fact that a large portion were also illegitimate simply added to their pariah status. Their status made them willing to risk their lives to get away from the restrictive rules of central Mexico.

So, they set off into Indian country. You can almost hear the Wagon Train theme song playing in the background. The north was populated with nomadic Indian tribes who had not yet been conquered, and did not take kindly to these strangers invading their land.

But the land was good cattle country, and better horse country. Enterprising souls set themselves up as ranch owners or as vaqueros (cowboys). Without the caste social strata, they could ride horses, own guns, be someone. All things they could not do in Mexico City.

As early as the 1700s, they created a distinct society in northern Mexico. One that would return to the stage in the Revolution.

But I am getting ahead of myself.  We are still in the Colonial Period.

The social structure in central New Spain in the late 18^th century began to erode. Remember that group of Mexican-born whites? The Criollos. They began chafing under the rules that would not let them serve in high military or government positions.

That restriction mattered. Both in Spain and New Spain, the only way to get ahead in society was to attain a position with the crown or the church. What was important was the title, not the service itself. The position often became personal property. As inheritable as a dukedom. And the Criollos resented the fact that they were prohibited from sharing in the best pieces of the cake.

Because they felt like second class citizens in their own country, they did not feel Spanish. Instead, they called themselves “Americans.” The seeds of feeling Mexican had been planted. They were not yet Mexican, but they certainly no longer felt Spanish.

3. Independence

Not surprisingly, the aggrieved Criollos were the leaders of the independence movement from 1810 to 1821. When independence from Spain was won, they could now call themselves “Mexican.” And they did.

But who did they include in that word -- Mexican? It was primarily their own Criollo group. The white Mexicans (or Mexicans who had documents claiming they were white).

Between 1821 and 1910, two Criollo groups competed to rule Mexico. The conservatives and the liberals. One of their greatest disagreements was the question of Mexico’s identity.

The conservatives wanted Mexico to be Catholic and reflect Spanish values. The liberals wanted Mexico to be secular and looked back nostalgically and romantically on the Indian myth -- especially the Aztecs, even though they had no concern for the Indians living amongst them. When pushed, the liberals decided they wanted Mexico to reflect French Positivism.

For almost another 100 years, they would be the people who led Mexican society and used it for their benefit.

If you had asked a resident of Mexico who was a Mexican in those years, I am not certain what you would have heard. The country’s identity literally was up for grabs.

4. Revolution

And, in 1910, the grab occurred.

Remember the group of Mestizos who had headed north over the prior centuries? The people who developed what we now know as the cowboy culture?

In 1910, they revolted against President Porfirio Diaz who had stolen the presidential election from their favorite son of the north, Francisco Madero. The northern forces militarily defeated the southern government forces and put Madero in the presidential chair. The political revolution had occurred.

But it was also a social revolution for the Mexico City society. The Criollo monopoly on power was gone. The age of the Mestizo had arrived.

The big change was in the definition of who was a Mexican. No longer was it just the white Mexicans who had ruled Mexico for a century. The revolution declared the emergence of a new Mexican. In the years between Independence and the Revolution, the people of mixed races (especially Indian and Spanish) had become a majority of the population. Today the percentage of Mestizos in the population is 60%. Compare that with the 18% Mestizo population in 1790.

Post-revolution Mexico celebrated the fact that it was made up of a new race. La Raza. Mixed Indian and Spanish blood. With the conquering power of the Spanish and the romantic nostalgia of the Aztecs.

That definition was also very convenient for the leaders of the revolution. Most were far more interested in creating order than in creating a permanent, ideological revolution. So, they tamed the fervor of their more radical colleagues with the Mestizo myth -- a myth that had faint echoes of the Spanish “purity of blood.” Mexico had found a way to live with its Spanish and Indian past -- or so they thought.

But, right from the start, using race to define nationality had flaws. Between the first and second world wars, Mexican fascists used the Mestizo myth to argue that the Mexican race – the Mestizo race -- was racially superior to all other races.

5. Situation today -- and the future

The Mestizo myth has the advantage of containing most of the population. 60%. It also has the advantage of attempting to reconcile the conqueror with the conquered.

But it leaves out full-blooded Indians from the definition. 30% of the population. To be fair, a large portion of those Indians do not want to be Mexican. They avoided being assimilated by the Spanish and the Aztecs. They want to retain their own tribal nationality. In that sense, Mexico is like every other modern nation -- it contains distinct groups that do not want to be part of the larger nation. Think of France. Or Turkey. Or Russia. Or China.

And then there are other nationalities who have immigrated to Mexico -- Mennonite farmers in the north, Central American communities in the south, and a large Lebanese community that has produced government ministers -- and the richest man in the world. They are not part of La Raza. But they are certainly a significant part of Mexican society.

Several observers have pointed out a major flaw in the Mestizo myth. Starting with Ocatvio Paz in The Labyrinth of Solitude.  Paz claims the Mestizo myth is flawed because it is based on national self-loathing: hating the Spanish heritage for conquering its Indian side, and shame that the Indian side could not resist.

So what is the future of Mexican nationality?

I don’t know.  I am an historian, remember; and not a psychic.  But there are some themes currently working their way through the political fabric in Mexico.

Some political forces feel uneasy with a national identity based on the definition of blood. The hard left, for example, would prefer to define Mexicans based on a compliance with permanent revolutionary principles. One group who believes in a permanent revolution has made its way back into the news. The teachers and students involved in the protests over the deaths of the 43 radical students in Guerrero.

Liberals are more likely to favor a definition that centers solely upon citizenship as defined in the Constitution of 1917 -- natural-born Mexicans and naturalized Mexicans.

Others of a post-modern bent see hope in putting the Mestizo myth behind as Mexico pushes away from some of its isolationist past by becoming a true global economic power. And defining the Mexican nationality by its economic place in the world as the 12^th largest economy with the same promise Mexico showed in opening global trade in the 16^th century.

Let me sum up with those three stories I started with.

Legazpi and Urdaneta may have merely been operatives in the great Spanish Empire. But to Mexicans here in Barra de Navidad, they were the heroes who opened Mexico to worldwide trade. We can certainly celebrate them as Mexican in that sense.

To the three Mixteco boys at the school who were proud because they knew things better than Mexican boys, I would point out that they are Mexican -- at least, they are walking the education road that will make them part of Mexican society, to be judged by the content of their character, not the color of their skin.

And to the father who was concerned that the tone of his son’s skin could affect his future, I can understand that concern.

Take a look at who television and advertisers portray as leaders in Mexico. They look white enough to have been vetted by a 17^th century caste chart.

But I would ask that father to take out a 20 peso note, and look at the face on the note. That is Benito Juarez. A full-blood Zapotec Indian who was President of Mexico during one of its most tempestuous times.  His features should be a reminder that substance can overcome form.

Race and features are not destiny. That is something we northerners with our European backgrounds need to remind ourselves. For all of its odd history with race, Mexico has always turned to utilitarian principles -- asking: does it work -- and often chooses the best path.

I personally wish Mexico -- and its people -- godspeed in its next 500 years of history.

A Partial Bibliography

Jorge Castañeda; Mañana Forever?: Mexico and the Mexicans 

T.R. Fehrenbach; Fire and Blood: A History of Mexico 

S.C. Gwynne; Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe in American History 

Richard Grabman; Gods, Gachupines, and Gringos 

Enrique Krauze; Mexico: Biography of Power -- A History of Modern Mexico (1810-1996) 

Charles C. Mann; 1491: New Revelations of the Americas before Columbus 

Charles C. Mann; 1493: Uncovering the New World Columbus Discovered 

Robert W. Merry; A Country of Vast Designs: James K. Polk, the Mexican War, and the Conquest of the American Continent 

Henry Bamford Parkes; A History of Mexico 

Octavio Paz; The Labyrinth of Solitude: The Other Mexico 

Alan Riding; Distant Neighbors: A Portrait of the Mexicans



Photographs courtesy of Jack Brock and Nancy Klein.

pasta and phil

Spaghetti is for poor people.

So says my Melaque friend J.  (She will chide me as much for not using her name as for using it.  So, "J" it is.)

She may have her reasons for disdaining spaghetti.  Whatever they are, I think she is wrong.  To me, spaghetti (in fact, all pasta) is a gift from God.

While working on my lecture (I may as well call it what is: my performance), I decided to take a break and cook something at the house.  Last December, I bought five packets of Italian-crafted spaghetti.  They were a bit expensive ($56 (Mx) each; about $4 (US) for a pound package), but I really liked its rough texture (better for retaining sauce) and its taste.

Almost everything else I needed was at hand in the pantry: tomato paste, basil, oregano, basil, chili powder, worcestershire sauce, onions, garlic, tomatoes, and an Argentine Malbec for the sauce base.  All I needed was some minced meat, which I bought from the butcher down the road, and I was on my way to one of my culinary favorites.

I should avoid making spaghetti at home.  I like it far too much.  After two large bowls, I started feeling a bit like Mr Creosote from Monty Python's Meaning of Life.  (You didn't think I was going to link to it, did you?  We do have some standards here at Mexpatriate.)

And then a voice from above saved me from my gluttony.  Well, not a voice, but a sound.  The percussive explosions of cohetes -- those small sky rockets with the big voice announcing the approach and passing of one religious procession or other.

In this case, it was my neighborhood's patron saint -- San Felipe de Jesús (Saint Philip of Jesus).  His feast day is this week, and there will be all of the usual excuses to indulge in mild passions of the flesh that accompany Mexican fiestas -- religious or otherwise.

It turns out this particular saint had a penchant for pleasures of the flesh himself.  Born of Spanish parents in Mexico City in 1572, he led the type of spoiled childhood of a son of the conquest.  Because he was born in Mexico (and not in Spain), his vocational opportunities were limited.

He took one of the routes open to him by joining a religious order -- the Franciscans.  His heart was not in it.  A couple months later, he left the order and decided to be a merchant (a lowly job for his birth) in the Philippines.

The kid may as well have been Hamlet.  Within a year, he decided he wanted to be a Franciscan, again.  Because there was no bishop at the time in Manila to ordain him, he was on his way back to Mexico City on a ship to be re-admitted in his order.

Then, things turned bad.  He may as well have ended up in the hands of ISIS.  The ship was wrecked on the coast of Japan.  The Japanese feared the priests (along with all of the soldiers and cannon on board) were part of a European invasion.  (Like that tunnel between the Vatican and the White House during the Kennedy years.)

Philip's end was not a pretty one (along with the other priests on the ship and several Japanese friars and priests -- 17 in all).  Their ears were sliced off, they were paraded through Japanese streets, and in an act of religious parody that would have warmed the heart of Jihadi John, they were tied to a cross and pierced with spears until they died. 

That was 1597.  Within 38 years, Japan was closed to all foreigners.

In an odd sense, Philip's life sums up the colonial period of my little talk later today.  New Spain's caste system warped its society.  Simply because he was a Spaniard born in Mexico, and not in Spain, Philip's career opportunities were limited.  Of course, even though he lived to be only 25, he did end up as a saint -- and I guess that may be right up there in the hierarchy of jobs.

I doubt I will use that line later today.  If I have time before I head north, I will tell you how my performance went.

moon over the yard

I have said it before, and I will undoubtedly say it again -- I am really glad I bought this place.  Tonight's moon from the courtyard perfectly complements the lines that the architect so carefully added to this place.

This is my gift to you this evening.  It is too beautiful to keep just to myself.

craft of craving

I have a craving.

That is an interesting sentence.  Is it possible to ever just stop there? 

Is it ever possible to simply have an abstract craving?  Or does that sentence need to identify an actual craving for a very specific thing -- to make any sense?

I can't think of a single instance where I have left a dangling craving at the end of a sentence.  Cravings are for something.

This little rumination started ricocheting around my head as I left one of my favorite restaurants last night.  My fettuccine Alfredo was almost perfect, but I could not quite clean my plate.

So, I was walking toward my car with a small container of pasta left-overs when the craving hit.  I am not much for desserts.  But, when I have them, they have to be on a rather limited list.  No chocolate.  No cream cheese.  No coffee flavoring.  And not too sweet.  The survivors constitute a small group.

Topping the list is ice cream.  But not just any ice cream.  It has to be Baskin-Robbins cherries jubilee -- or nothing.  And that was what I was craving.

Our little town is filled with ice cream stores.  Almost none of them have anything approaching cherries jubilee.  The closest is a black cherry flavor -- with chunks of black cherry -- sold by Thrifty ice cream stores.

There are two Thrifty stores within cone-tossing distance from my house.  The problem is, as good as the Thrifty black cherry ice cream is, it is not Baskin-Robbins cherries jubilee.

The nice thing about cravings is that unless the specific item is at hand, substitutions will not suffice.  I was going to pat myself on the back for having the courage of my convictions to drive past the Thrifty store without even slowing down.  (Well, I slowed down to see if the store was open.  It was.  I will give myself a half point for not looking for a parking space when I saw the store was open.)

And I will take away that half-point because my real justification for not stopping was that I will be in Oregon this coming Sunday -- and I can stop by the Baskin-Robbins store at the Bend Fred Meyer whenever my brother gives me the keys to the Shiftless Escape.
 
Some itches just need to be scratched.  This one will be licked. 

writing in the rain

Yesterday was devoted to one task -- working on another draft of my Thursday lecture.

I have one hour to present my research.  The last draft was 16 pages of outline notes.  You can see the problem.  The corpses of five lectures are buried in my prose loam.  So, I have been taking the machete to it.

A wiser man would simply acknowledge that Aristotle was correct.  Everything that exists is the same as itself; and is different from everything else.  If I have five lectures; they are five lectures, and will never be one, no matter how hard I stomp the garbage into the dust bin.

That revelation came to me this afternoon after six hours of tamping down the trash.  I had set up camp at Papa Gallo's with a great view of the beach.  I knew the restaurant would not be too busy because of the rain that descended on us with a vengeance on Sunday evening.  It was still hanging about in thunderstorm mode. 

I thought I would be undisturbed.  But nature has a way of intervening.

The light reflecting off of the clouds was too enticing for my inner Ansel Adams.  Between the flocks of birds commuting from bait ball to bait ball, and the thunder adding long ominous rolls in the background, I had to get away from the computer to enjoy what was going on.

I particularly liked this view.  Our little bay is now filled with boats seeking refuge from our unseasonably wet weather.  It feels as if the weather system has squatted over us.  But that isn't true.

In the photograph, you can see another wave of rain that was heading our way -- and managed to clear the beach of Mexican tourists celebrating the intricate subtleties between Articles 26 and 27 of their Constitution.  Or maybe they were just having a good time.

Because I wasn't going to get any more editing done while enjoying the beach view, I decided to sequester myself in my monastic cell -- otherwise known as my bedroom.  A place, as Henry Higgins would say, with "an atmosphere as restful as an undiscovered tomb."

And so it was for about three hours.  I then heard the distinctive tones of the town band and the mullah-like prayer over a cheap loudspeaker that indicated another religious procession was passing by.

From yesterday's essay, you know what was up.  It was the Candlemas procession -- trying to pry people from their homes to attend mass.  It wasn't working.

And it wasn't working very well for the procession, either.  The usual faux Indian dance troupe led off -- but their ranks (and enthusiasm) were rain-thinned.

This shot gives you an idea just how small this particular procession was.  You can see the dancers in front, followed by the usual pickup "float," the town folk who have joined in, and the band looking just as bedraggled as the dancers.

The "float" was an interesting piece of propaganda.  Candlemas celebrates the day Joseph and Mary first took baby Jesus to the temple in Jerusalem.  As practicing Jews, they were following the Torah's requirement to offer up the first born to God and to purify the mother after childbirth.

Whoever designed the float decided it was a good opportunity to remind mothers to baptize their babies.

As I stood there shooting, I noticed something very odd.  The complete absence of the bone-jarring sky rockets (cohetes).  Nary a one was shot off while the procession was within three blocks of my house.  I assumed that it might be too rainy.

Wrong.  I no more closed my gate when I heard two.  WHAM!  WHAM!  As if ISIS had decided that shelling Barra de Navidad would be good sport.

And then there were none.  Maybe my rain theory was correct, after all.

But it was a nice break.  And a break that gave me time to cook a small dinner -- which I ate while watching Annie Hall.  One more time.

If I start channeling Alvy Singer during my lecture on Thursday, well -- it might be a good thing.

checking my constitution

There were cars everywhere when I drove to the restaurant on Saturday night for the Cuba extravaganza.

And I had no idea why.  Until I gave it some thought.  I should have immediately figured it out.  It is Constitution Day.

Well, not really.  Constitution Day is 5 February -- one of Mexico's eight statutory public holidays.  But Mexico has followed the benighted practice of its northern neighbor by celebrating holidays, that fall on a given day, not on that day, but rather on the nearest Monday.

Thus the Mexicans were taking advantage of a three-day weekend.  But two other events also occurred over the weekend.

There was a wedding in town.  And not just any wedding.  People with status and lots of money were tying the knot. 

How could I tell?  All you needed to do was start toting up the number of luxury vehicles parked along the streets -- and the young Mexican couples walking around who appeared to have just arrived from their photo session of Upscale Living.

For the more devout, today is Candlemas -- the day when some Mexicans maintain the tradition of taking down their nativity scenes.  Officially ending the Christmas season.

Some Mexicans.  But not here.  Our nativity scenes were stowed in the bodegas after the three kings stopped by to divvy up their booty.  We are a town of commerce, not tradition.

I conducted one of my very unscientific poll by talking with 9 random Mexicans.  My first question was why was there so much activity in town?  (The restaurant where I was conducting the poll was filled with Mexican tourists.)

All 9 mentioned it had something to do with the constitution -- none mentioned Candlemas.  Most assumed it involved the Mexican constitution, but a couple were uncertain of what a constitution might be.  Only one identified it as the constitution of 1917.  (A similar question about the Fourth of July in The States would undoubtedly engender similar answers.)

Our expatriate community was out and about, as well.  But not for Candlemas, a wedding, or Constitution Day.  They were looking for the best place to gather to see Seattle and New England beat the tar out of each other.  It was Super Bowl Sunday.

My friends Lou and Wynn invited me over to watch the game with two friends visiting from Canada, and with Ben and Alexa of La Taza Negra (and their two young children: Ayden and Willow.)  You know the four of them from A Mama's Logbook.

I suspect I have seen most Super Bowls in the homes of friends -- most often overseas.  There is something exotic watching the quintessential American sport in surroundings where the game simply hasn't taken root.

Last night's game had the advantage of being an interesting and well-played game -- though I suspect the crows will be feeding on the carcass of the Seahawks' final play for some time.  Monday morning quarterbacking is a multi-billion dollar industry, not to mention being guaranteed by the American Constitution.  Somewhere in the First Amendment, I think.

Paul Allen and Russell Wilson may not be having a great time this week.  But I certainly had a great time watching the game and sharing an incredible prime rib dinner.  A brief power outage simply added to the festive nature of the evening.

You might be wondering why I would be enjoying a prime rib dinner during a game I professed to be enjoying.  Let me explain how broadcast television works down here.

Barra de Navidad and Melaque are at the very edge of the satellite beaming area.  Any small interference can simply stop transmission.  The wind.  Birds.  Hillary Clinton shifting her position on a major issue.

But, usually, it is rain.  And rain we had last night.  Just as half time started, the transmission faded.  And continued to fade until well into the fourth quarter.

By then, part of our group was in ecstasy.  We had left the Seahawks tied with the Patriots when the screen went black.  They were ahead when the transmission resumed.

We witnessed the Patriots' touchdown that put New England in the lead, and then the Seahawks' relentless march to the 1 yard line.  Only to have Russell Wilson's pass intercepted by Malcolm Butler with 20 seconds to go.  The game appeared to be over.  There was to be no joy in the Mudville of the Pacific Northwest.

And, for us, it was.  Over, that is.

The screen went black.  Again.  We missed what happened in those last 20 seconds of the game.  Including Bruce Irvin's ejection for behavior that makes some of us wonder if football has turned into something other than a sport.

While we were bidding adios to Ben and his family, we noticed something unusual across the street.  The rain was still doing its impression of Miami in August.  The electrical wires run very close to a series of palm trees at that point.  Perhaps too close.

In several places, contact with the wires was creating either sparks or small fires.  It was no wonder that we had briefly lost power.  Just another wonder of Mexico.

For me, the day held no wedding.  Candlemas means nothing to me.  And I doubt I gave any thought to the Mexican Constitution -- other than to wonder just how often I have violated Article 33.  None today.  I hope.

But it was a super day with super friends. 

Just another reason I live in Mexico.
 

kicking up heels

What does it take for the beach crowd to slip on high heels and top it off with a Chanel little black dress?

Apparently, Cuba night.  And Cuba night it was at the French eatery Ambar.  Or "Cubambar" for the night -- as the owners Veronique and Ricardo would have it.  (Yeah, I know.  Cuba.  Ricardo.  Even I am not going there.)

For a high value peso note, we were treated to a Cuban dinner (I have yet to eat a Cuban meal I did not like), to Cuban music (which I like almost as much), and to a Cuban craft (other than the type of craft that locks up political prisoners).

Speaking of Cuban prisoners, I am always a bit cautious about attending cultural events where the star attraction is from a totalitarian country.  I have had plenty of experiences where I thought I was supporting social justice in Palestine or political dissidents in Iran only to find out that I had sponsored guns for Palestine and training gear for Republican Guards.  You just never know.

But I decided simply to enjoy the night for what it was.  If there was sub-text, it could play out in someone else's essay.

I was correct about the food.  Even though most Cuban dishes have an interesting combination of ingredients, they tend to be rather simple and tasty.  That was certainly true of last night's main chicken course -- combined with olives and raisins.  A form of fricassé de pollo, if I am guessing correctly.

The chicken was served with that Cuban staple -- rise and brown beans -- along with fried plantains.  The type of meal you were once able to eat in farmhouses around Cuba. 

The music was even better.  The Cuban import was known as Pedrito y de "Cubason."  Like most bands that travel from Cuba, their sound system was even worse than our local lighting.  I stood next to the stage several times to test how good the voices and instruments were before they became muddled by the sound system.

And good they were -- with the exception of the rather annoying habit of assigning saxophone and trumpet solos to the electronic piano.  For good reason.  There were no wind instruments.

But there was no missing the provenance of most of the tunes.  The eccentric descending chords and contrapuntal rhythms branded it as Cuban.  The song selections were primarily Cuban and Latin standards with a few new songs thrown in for variety.

Not that it mattered.  The crowd was ready to enjoy itself.  I was sitting in an area where French and Spanish were the lingua franca.

When the music started, Mexican shoulders immediately moved in syncopation with the beat until full bodies were dancing sitting down.  That did not last for long. 

Mexican women were the first to hit the dance floor.  They were soon joined by other language groups -- unfortunately proving several racial stereotypes about dancing. 

But that didn't matter, either.  After all this isn't Arthur Murray.  The fact that Latin hips move with more fluidity than northern hips was irrelevant.  Girls -- and guys -- just wanted to have fun.

And fun we had.  Barra de Navidad is blessed with some very good musicians.  But these guys knew their stuff.  In the same way that USO bands touring through Greece in the early 1970s knew their stuff.

Even the cloud of cigarette smoke that soon started rising added to the atmosphere.  I could have been at the Tropicana celebrating New Year's Eve in 1958 -- or just visiting the showroom of the Havana National Hotel in 2015.  Pretty much the same dictatorship and music.

Speaking of smoke, that was the craft that was on display last night.

A Cuban sat at a table pretending to make cigars -- and not pretending to sell them.  I am not certain if anyone indulged in that particular vice.  We may have been too busy indulging in our individual choices to be suckered into another.

Like most Latin concerts, this one started late, and it was just shifting into second gear when I had to leave.  After all, I need to get this story to you while it is fresh.  Plus, I have to get to church on time to plug my lecture on Thursday.  (It is now in draft form number seven.  You can see a hint of it in the left corner of my dinner photograph.)

As I write, we are getting a light rain shower.  Hardly the thunderstorm that was predicted to test how water tight the upper deck of the house now is.

Maybe I could get the pretty Mexican women in their high heels to come over to test out the worthiness of the new tiles.  The band is probably still playing.