I made a friend during my Spring Break in Mexico. He was there
Monday-Friday, remodeling the room with Z and I. You can see him in some of the pictures on the previous post. He was 24, married and
not living in the greatest situation. He dropped out of school in
first grade and currently is unemployed. He lives in an area similar to
the dump that I talked about in another post. He is very skilled at
construction and the types of things that we were doing, so
Z understandably decided to go get him. He of course doesn't have a
phone so we had no way of getting a hold of him. We just hopped in the
truck and started driving to where he lives, hoping to run into him.
That lifestyle of doing things that way fascinates me. It's so
different than the on-time culture that I'm used to. We got to where he
stays but there was no sign of him. Z asked some of his neighbors if
they had seen him. Nothing. One thing I've noticed in foreign countries
is people just chilling. Or maybe it's an urban thing. People just
stand or sit by the road, doing nothing. I don't know if they are
relaxing or life has them in a state of despair and they don't care
about anything nor improving their situation.
If I didn't know Spanish, there is no way this connection would
have been made. He knew maybe 10 words of English, just things he had
picked up. He was probably one of the biggest factors in my development
of Spanish that week. In the house I stayed in, we spoke mostly
English. But of course, I still spoke a lot of Spanish just in general,
at church, on the street and such. Working with this guy was great.
It wasn't a loud environment, there weren't any disruptions or other
people to deal with; it was just him, Z and I so it was perfect to
practice Spanish. When he got tired of this gringo stumbling through
Spanish, he couldn't just walk away; he had to converse with me. I
had plenty of time to stop and think about my sentences and I was having
whole entire conversations about his life. It took a couple days
before he got used to actually trying to help me and slowing down his
words so I could hear better. One day we had like three straight solid
hours and after that convo I was feeling pretty confident. At the end
of the week, I was definitely multiple steps ahead of where I started.
Andddddd now, I'm back down. I think this trip has put me at peace
with my Spanish. I hate wasting. I don't want anything to go to
waste: money, half a napkin, a trip somewhere, etc. I think one of the
reasons I was a personal trainer for too long was that I didn't want to
waste my degree. Naturally I felt the same way about Spanish. It put
me on edge. But now I'm cool with it. I know I'm not good at it.
People that don't know Spanish hear it and they think I'm good at it,
but that doesn't mean much to me because they don't know any better and
can't understand what I'm saying. In order to be fluent you have to
have an intense need to learn a second language and/or you have to be
immersed. I'm completely open to serving in a Spanish-speaking country
someday and re-learning. It would not be difficult for me to practice and build off the
base I have developed and start again. But for now, God has me here.
And with that said, I do not have the motivation, desire, or
perseverance, nor time it would require to put several hours of work
into being fluent. Before this trip I would not have been able to say
or feel those things.
Back to Matamoros. My friend and I had fun, exchanging banter and
such. He never remembered my name, which is hard for them to pronounce
anyways, so he just called me 'gringo.' That was the very first thing
he said when he saw me, 'gringo!!' I don't mind; I was just surprised
at his forwardness. The general disposition of Hispanics towards
Americans is one of timidness or indifference. A lot of them are just
flat scared but he had no fear and I liked it. All week he would
randomly just say, 'gringo, gringo, gringo.' It was funny. I started
calling him 'la mariposa de matamoros,' which means butterfly. Or he
liked to sing with the radio so I stole a line from a guy I used to work
for and asked him what he did with the money his mom gave him for
singing lessons.
As I got to know him and hear his story, I just really felt for
him. The only way he had to make money was to smuggle weed across the
river to the States. He made about $200 to swim 'mota' to Brownsville,
which is a lot of money to someone like him. He said he's never been
caught but gringos have seen him three times. He knows it is wrong and
smoking it everyday is also wrong. And he knows he runs the risk of
being put in a US jail for two years. But it's such easy money and it
is difficult to find other ways to earn money. I thought it was ironic that my
tax dollars are used to keep him out of my country and here I was being
friendly and using my resources to help him. The only way he can get
around outside of walking or grabbing a ride, is to take the bus. He
said he needed to get a bike but couldn't afford it. It didn't take me
long to offer to buy him a bike. He didn't really take me seriously at
first, or even for a couple days, but I was completely serious,
especially since 'bicis,' like most everything else, are cheap. I've
been wrestling with the idea of handouts and how it doesn't help a
person learn to work hard for themselves. But I got to know him and
felt obligated to help him because I knew he was trying, not to mention I
witnessed his work ethic all week, while we were working. And he didn't ask for it, I offered. On Friday we
finally went to the market and got him a bike. Z told me that I should
let him buy it because as soon as they see my white skin "they'll want a
million pesos instead of 800." I laughed as I was used to this. So
after going to a couple places, Z found an all but brand new one for 700
pesos, which is about $60. $60 is almost nothing to an American but
now he has a way to get around, to go look for jobs, to go buy
groceries, etc. He was definitely grateful. I prefer to give when a
need arises, rather then when they beg or plead for help and money.
Then we started talking about God. He wore a hat and had a tattoo of St. Jude so that's where I started. I told him if I was going to buy this bike, he needed to go to Z's church and he agreed to. Then I asked him if he had ever had a bible and he said he didn't. At this point, I was already in the mindset of I do not belong in the realm of Espanol, so I knew I wasn't going to really need or use my Spanish bible anymore. I brought it the next day and gave it to him. I totally thought it would collect dust but to my surprise, he came back the next few days telling me he had read Genesis 1, then chapter 2. He had never owned one and was definitely interested in reading it. I then immediately thought about how I didn't even considered whether he could read or not, but in prison he got six months of schooling. We talked about God and I explained that you can't pray to St. Jude and Jesus. He agreed. We had good talks. I do not know what will come of that, but hopefully a seed was planted.
Then we started talking about God. He wore a hat and had a tattoo of St. Jude so that's where I started. I told him if I was going to buy this bike, he needed to go to Z's church and he agreed to. Then I asked him if he had ever had a bible and he said he didn't. At this point, I was already in the mindset of I do not belong in the realm of Espanol, so I knew I wasn't going to really need or use my Spanish bible anymore. I brought it the next day and gave it to him. I totally thought it would collect dust but to my surprise, he came back the next few days telling me he had read Genesis 1, then chapter 2. He had never owned one and was definitely interested in reading it. I then immediately thought about how I didn't even considered whether he could read or not, but in prison he got six months of schooling. We talked about God and I explained that you can't pray to St. Jude and Jesus. He agreed. We had good talks. I do not know what will come of that, but hopefully a seed was planted.
I own a car. And a Macintosh computer. And tons of other things.
Why? Why am I so blessed? Why was I born into the American
middle-class, which puts me among the richest 5% of the world? I'm
beginning to lean towards calling it cursed, rather than blessed. It
has made me soft. I have never had a need that wasn't provided for me.
I have little idea what real struggle is like. I feel like I would fit
in much better with that type of people.
I love Texas. I really do. It has been wonderful to me. But the
longer I am in this American culture, the more obvious it becomes that I do not
belong here.
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