Day eight, Mexico City: Home

The day was quiet for the most part, other than me leaving of course. I walked around the neighborhood for a while just to see what was going on. My aunt made me a light breakfast and I sat around talking with family.

I saw my cousin from Jalisco for the first time since he brought my Tia Irene on Saturday. We talked for a little bit before they went to the downtown area and I said goodbye. I also told them when my dad decides to come back to Mexico; I’ll go with him to Jalisco to spend time with family there.

I waited around while my nephew was playing with my PSP until my cousin that showed me around for the better part of the trip to give me a ride to the airport.

On the flight home I thought a lot about the trip and remember things I wanted to write about, but didn’t have the time. Well, now I do.

. . . One morning my uncle asked me if I wanted to see the local newspaper, and of course, I wanted to see how it looked. It was a tabloid newspaper by every definition. The most glaring part – and there were plenty – was the front page photo. It showed a dead man after he was shot in the head with what was inside coming out. I told my uncle that there would be no way this photo would run in the newspaper where I worked.

The newspaper is still an important place for people to get news in Mexico City. Most newsstands I saw had many different newspapers to choose from; unlike in Los Angeles where there are only two newspapers, for the most part.

. . . I was asked several times by my family: “Do you think you could live here?” Well yes and no. I can adjust for the most part but what frightens me the most are the drivers. There are several times I told myself while in the back of a car, “I’d never do that in my car!” Now, I’m not saying I’m a letter perfect driver, but I will say there are certain things I saw that I would never do, like run a red light after stopping at it. The amazing thing is that at some intersections where there are police helping to direct traffic at a light, you could run it and get away with it; pedestrians be damned.

. . . What I will remember the most is I got to experience the day-to-day living of Mexico. When I went to Tokyo last year, I came back to a hotel every night that had a neutral feel where I wasn’t in Japan.

Every day for the past week I woke up, ate and slept like my cousins. It wasn’t that foreign to me at all. I grew up in a migrant farm house, a rustic environment. Much of what I experienced this past week when I was at my Tia Chuy’s house was what I experienced when I grew up in that red farm house on Union Island. The only real difference is was I was in a metropolitan city.

I have always dogged by the thought that I wasn’t Mexican enough. Yes, I don’t speak Spanish as well as I should and I’m not as cultural as some would like. I was brought up by my parents that where born and raised in Mexico for the most part and I believe they raised me and my family in the U.S. as if they would have raised us in Mexico. My parents always accepted me and I know I did not disappoint them.

As my flight approached the gate, the stewardess said if Los Angeles was your destination, “Welcome home.”

For the past week, I was home.