Turtles and Dutch People are Awesome...and other scary tales of learning Spanish

I've been trying to complete a little sculpture about fear and learning. The sculpture began taking form on my trip in Mexico. As much of my thinking happens, it is taking shape by writing about it, tearing up the writing, and then gluing it back together. After my time in Latin America, I have thought a lot about what it means to be foreign, in every sense of the word, and to be different and try to learn.
Prior to this trip, I had spent two years of grad school thinking and practicing to be an art teacher-straddling the worlds of "teacher" and "student" and thinking about power and privilege and access to information. Going to Mexico put me firmly back in the role of student, in an unknown territory, with many privileges voluntarily stripped from me. I lived the paradox of having the means and privilege to travel across borders but to also be totally paralyzed and infantilized by the newness around me and a language I didn't speak. How do I wash my clothes? How do I ask for medicine at the drug store? How do I explain who I am and what I'm doing there? To be a learner is to be a foreigner and it requires courage, patience, the ability to be alone for a long time, and self-love.
My goal -to learn Spanish- was met largely through one-one-one intensive courses with tutors who only spoke Spanish with me.  As I've recounted before, learning a new language can be magical: the new sounds coming out of my mouth, the strangers who became friends in a new language with me, or hearing a new common phrase click in my head as I walked down the road. But learning, of course, can be excruciatingly painful and lonely. I recall towards the end of my trip, I was really trying to blast through the Intermediate Spanish plateau that so many learners struggle to surpass. So much information was coming at me during one class and instead of seeing it as a fault of the teacher, or for speaking up for myself or asking to change course, I started blaming myself. That abyss between student knowledge and teacher understanding of their student is amplified in a language learning setting. An easy example: The teacher explains in Spanish what homework I should do, then I go and do something else and return with the wrong assignment. I really thought I understood. How many times do we think someone is not listening to us when really it was just interpreted differently? During one class, I felt so upset with myself that I hadn't figured out a conjugation and, according to my own goals, I was way behind. I fought back tears while the teacher talked even more loudly at me trying to shout the pronunciations and concepts into my skull. (Increased volume does not increase clarity and understanding, just my adrenaline.) Despite being an adult who chose to be in that room and was paying for it, I felt like a 13 year old who wanted to cuss him out and leave the room. I felt this strange hostility bubbling up when he asked me questions I couldn't answer. Stop exposing my ignorance, maestro! In that moment, I learned to be a more compassionate teacher and swore to never forget that feeling of being lost and isolated. I try to imagine that feeling when the power reverses and someone else "just isn't getting it" when I explain something seventeen times over. That's the feeling of being lost at sea without touching and seeing the bottom of the ocean but laughing at the turtle under your belly....that is the feeling I'm trying to  squeeze into the little boxes of my sculpture so I never forget.

I say all this not because I want you to know how brave I am or how well I can take money out of an ATM machine in a foreign country. I say this because it has become more and more clear to me that we live in a culture of fear and taking a step out of our country, our comfort zones, our language, our circles, our expected "career paths" is a radical counter-action to fear. It is an attempt at love and imagination. When I think about my unplanned trip to Mexico with no return ticket, the word trust keeps coming up...and imagination. I couldn't have done this trip without imagination. I joked with others, "Am I crazy for doing this?" because intense use of your imagination feels unsound, unreasonable. It was unreasonable because I didn't need reason; I needed imagination. And curiosity. And trust. There was no reason to trust the taxi driver who made the sign of the cross and kissed his hand before accelerating wildly out of the airport and into the tangle of Mexico City. There was no reason to trust the chef on the street and follow him home on the subway. (Okay, that was a little crazy.) There was no reason to trust my naive, Anglo-brain, riding into the mountains without proper footwear and not nearly enough Dramamine. There was no reason to trust that my backpack stowed under the bus would be there in the morning. There was no reason that I should jump out of a boat in the ocean, a mile off shore with a turtle and a man I met on the beach. (I did trust the advice of a few Dutch people about which building to stamp my passport at the Guatemalan border. Now that was reasonable.) To leave the familiar and to move somewhere by yourself requires imagination...which is why I think artists are always traveling. We tend to imagine another way and another world. It's a feminist act as well. When men or women go outside of our usual network, our usually defenses, I believe we're actually respecting our hardy individual strengths and trusting our intuitive feminist selves.
So many people have asked me, "Weren't you scared traveling alone?" They usually are referencing sensational crime stories they hear on the news or have distorted notions of foreigners as all being dangerous criminals preying on young American women. I also think what they're really saying is "I'm afraid of doing that myself." I try to respond: Life is just as scary when you stay in one place, in one confined box, and don't use your imagination. Or I make a less eloquent response exaggerating the crime rates in Rogers Park. Whatever you take away from this, turtles and Dutch people are awesome and Rogers Park is a perfectly fine place to live.

Woman in the Wind Who Has Lost Her Nose

My yoga teacher said today, "Peel away the things that no longer serve you." That immediately meant to me that I should be peeling away the tension in my right hip, and all of the muscles around it. Blasted runner's hips!

 "Car Ride from Bird's Point of View" Graphite on Paper, c. 1989.

I did this while also thinking about all the things I've been purging this past month since I've gotten back from Mexico. This included old clothes, pointless grudges, obsolete grad school binders, and dust collecting on the top edge of hanging picture frames. I also thought about my digital clutter that is still peeling away: useless photos, documents, doubles of almost everything, incorrect formats, mystery articles and forms that I downloaded (in my sleep, maybe?) 

One of the nice things about peeling away what you don't need is unearthing what it is that does serve you...namely, an envelope (analog, not digital) of your childhood drawings that your mother kept.

"Woman in the Wind Who Has Lost Her Nose" Ink on Paper, c. 1990.

Here is this week's picks from years 7 and 8 of my childhood. These are clearly the years when one has an acute sense of ladies' shoulder pads and a fascination with things in flight.

Awareness of the placement of shoulder seams? Check.
Understanding of knees and elbows? In Artistic development.

You can see through to the other side of the paper a little bit where my mom had dutifully written  "Jean Age 8" and "Jean Age 7".  For the piece I am titling, "Woman in the Wind Who Has Lost Her Nose," I am willing to believe I was onto the next drawing and had forgotten to add the suggestion of a nose. I am also willing to believe that I did not worry myself with things that did not serve me. In this case, it was a nose. The image is better without it. I will take this as a lesson from my 7 year old artist-self: Don't bother with things you don't need, move on to the next project, and just keep drawing out what you see around you.

I touched lions and dinosaur eggs. Now what?

I’m not a PETA member or an animal rights activist per se. Maybe it’s time I step up to the plate. I do love animals and cuddling fluffy puppies...or baby tigers as the opportunity arises. I’m a vegetarian primarily for health reasons but of course, support and appreciate fair treatment for all animals.  While there are so many issues worth fighting for in regards to the rights and dignities of humans, the way we treat our animals is also a sign of how we treat each other. Thank you, Upton Sinclair, Howard Lyman, Julia Butterfly Hill and countless others for pointing out the sick relationship we have had and continue to have both biologically and mentally with our eco-systems. I try to avoid soapboxes on my blog but I thought about all of these issues rather intensely this past weekend.

I wrote to my sister when I safely got back into Oaxaca last weekend... “I went with my Swiss classmate to visit this really wealthy man's house and spent the night in his mansion. He owns a private zoo. It was the strangest past 24 hours of my life. One for the book.” My sister has suggested I write a book.

So here's the story before I adapt it to the book:
My friend from language school was invited by this wealthy Mexican man to visit his home. They met on a weekend excursion to see ruins outside of town the weekend before. Red flag! Where have I seen this before? Right, the other stranger's house in Mexico. Read here: http://heartjean.blogspot.com/2011_09_01_archive.html
  My Swiss friend was willing to go if I would join her. It wouldn't be so strange if there were two of us going, would it? I've done far riskier things. We decided to accept his invitation to stay at his home for one night. I think we had an exit strategy...like, if it was really awful we could always stay at a hotel or something.
We took a 3 hour bus to the town Tehuacan in the state of Puebla. Our new "friend" picked us up at the bus station in a fancy car with his niece and nephew riding along. Nope, nothing strange here. A few minutes later we arrive at a large gated home.
As the gates opened to his driveway, a bullet-proof-vest-wearing-guard shooed the scores of chihuahuas out of the way of our car pulling in. The wealthy man sells chihuahuas on the side. Good business, he says.

We entered the house filled wall-to-wall with taxidermy-- (I was assured all animals died of natural causes on his property). While the wealthy man and his nephew attended to some business at the dining room table, the niece brought out a baby leopard for us ladies to cuddle. At this point, I have no idea where this animal came from. The nephew and wealthy man were still talking about something at the table so the niece started opening cabinets and showing us fossils, dinosaur eggs, pre-hispanic-mesoamerican artifacts. We passed them around like we were shopping for a good centerpiece at The Pottery Barn.
The wealthy man found us in his office a while later fondling artifacts thousands of years old and posing with stone tablets with mysterious inscriptions. The occasional flamingo could be seen sauntering past the office window in the backyard. The wealthy man openly admitted he bought his pieces on the black market. He wanted to start a museum one day. Fascinating, right?
Well, as you can imagine, we had many questions! Number 1: Why did he invite us strangers to his home? His round-about answer suggested that he enjoyed sharing what he had and that he trusted foreigners in his home far more than his fellow Mexicans. Hmmm. After leaving our things in guest bedrooms, we went for a ride to the local shopping mall for sandwiches with the wealthy man and his niece. You're right, this isn't in the guidebooks.

Nighttime had fallen on the house of enchanted black market treasures...so what to do?---- That's right!...say goodnight to all the exotic animals in the backyard! So off we went out the back door of the house: myself, my Swiss friend, the niece with a baby tiger on a leash, the nephew and two guards following behind walking with flashlights.  We followed closely behind as the wealthy man clanged on the cages with his flashlight and cooed at his cats.  By cats I mean, lions and tigers...and bears and zebras and monkeys suddenly emerging out of the darkness!  The feeling of walking down a pitch black pathway and then realizing you are within inches of a white tiger's face is a sensation to remember.

My Swiss friend and I later retired to guest bedrooms to quietly whisper our private reactions to these strange environs. "Um, why are we here again?" "Was that really a dinosaur egg?" "Does it matter?" "How many foreigners are buried in the backyard?" "Just kidding, haha!" "I think I walked through monkey sh!t...or was that from the chihuahuas?" "How does the wealthy man have money again?" "Look at the pretty marble floors in the bathroom." "He was married to how many European women?" "Which Mexican political party's campaign did he support again?" "Is that his nephew or a cousin? Are you sure that's his niece? No, I heard niece." "What kind of laws are there for having tigers in your backyard in Mexico?" "Is this what you imagined when you met him last week?"

The next morning I couldn't eat the cow intestine soup served for breakfast but my Swiss friend said it had interesting texture. I had quesadillas and we sat surrounded by jade skulls and arrowheads discussing what mountains the wealthy man had climbed and how much he likes Russia. It was a largely male dominated conversation with the nephew and wealthy man at the heads of the tables with us four girls quietly chewing our breakfast, speaking in rapid Spanish and using sprinklings of choppy English. Soon thereafter we went to see all the animals in the private zoo in their full daytime glory. The wealthy man often opened the metal doors so we could take unobstructed photos of the amazing creatures.

The wealthy man says that his cats have a huge rate of reproduction. More "mainstream" zoos don't understand how he does it with such a small space. He says it's because he loves them and the animals have fun looking at each other. At one point, I tried to tactfully ask about how he learned to take care of so many animals and if he has a lot of legal obstacles. His short answer was that he just started reading about animals over time and that he has to keep microchips in all of his animals so that they are accounted for by the government. 
So what to do with that information? Well, in that moment, you can only feed marshmallows to 7 foot grizzly bears and pet the fine silky black coats of jaguars. We had our choice of the stuffed ones inside or the live ones in the cages.
After  hours of being up close and personal with dozens of species in the wealthy man's zoo, we went for lunch in town and were dropped off at the bus station...without a scratch.

He was a nice enough man but I was ready to scratch under the surface a bit more. Luckily, others have scratched here before questioning whether these animals should be confined as they are. There have been petitions to move the animals to a better habitat. There is also a short film investigating its ethics as well. I'm not sure what to do next. But writing about it is a start.