This is Goodbye.

Dear Reader,

With 2015 comes a new life.
I'm retiring this blog, because the person who it belonged to before has to evolve.

Part of that process means leaving this blog as an artifact.
Something that can be revisited, but that should not be fixated on.

It's time to grow.
It's time to heal.

I can't do that in a den full of the things that I have to grow beyond and heal from.

You will find me in another blogosphere soon enough,

Nikki. 

Of Mice and Men.

I've been thinking a lot about death, and about kindness. About loss, and about our role in other peoples lives.

A few days ago, I lost a family member. We weren't super close, I didn't know him extremely well. He was my mom's cousin, older than me and in another country.

We spoke a few times a year, shared some laughs, but that was it.

He killed himself.

There is a shame associated with this, and people don't want to talk about it. They want to change the facts. But, as I've mentioned in previous posts:

They say “suicide is the coward’s choice.” I disagree. It is the “cornered’s” choice. It is the oppressed’s choice, the abused’s choice, the last choice. I use to believe it was a selfish choice, and now I believe it’s a selfless – albeit warped – choice. No one walks into the gallows unaccompanied.

Someone is always there, with the knife to their back.

He killed himself because the weight of who he wasn't was bearing down on him. His failures as perceived by others crept into the back of his mind.

Or maybe they were hammered in, and often, by the people he was most in contact with.

So I'm writing this for you, Phil, because you deserve to be remembered for who you were - not for what you lacked, and because I am not ashamed. 

Phil was a father. A Marine. He was a proud American - seriously, he really really loved the US - but loved his Japanese wife even more. So much, that he moved there to be with her, and raise their family. He was a husband.

An adoring, proud father.

He was a hard worker, and sometimes he drank a little too much. But I think he did that because he had a really big heart, and he internalized everything. It softened the blows.

Phil was the kind of guy who'd listen to you, empathize, cheer you up, share a song or two, and then check in on you the next day.

He genuinely cared.

He was an open book. Anything you wanted to know, he'd tell you.
He was a not just a storyteller, but a story itself.

So here comes the call to action, the part where you come in: evaluate yourself for a moment. What role are you playing in the lives of others?

Isn't it easier to be kind than to be judgmental and harsh?
Isn't it easier to recognize the hard work people are doing, instead of pointing out what they have yet to do?
Isn't it easier to forgive, and move forward?
And at the very least, what business is it of yours to interfere in the autonomous decisions of another?

So stop. Think.
Who are you judging?
Who are you criticizing?
Who are you trying to change?
If they haven't asked for this specifically, then just stop.

Be the kind person.
Be the supportive person.
Be the open ear.
Be the keeper of secrets.

See people for who they are, not for what you want them to be.
And be okay with that.

---

Que descanses, Phil.

The Flea.

Okay. So maybe ''The Flea'' isn't the proper name for this post, since it's actually about parasites.
Yes. You read correctly.

Parasites.

Here's the thing: apparently, it's really common in this part of the world to take a pill that kills the parasites in your body....every 6 months.

I kid you not. There are commercials of Asian families speaking Spanish, singing a jingle about taking their anti-parasitic.

When I first heard this, I thought it was a joke.
"No way." Those are the exact words I spoke.

Jethro proceeded to explain to me that in these parts, parasites live in everything. Your food. Your water. The air in the markets.

Then he told me about one parasite that lays eggs in your body, sometimes in your brain, and if the eggs hatch you die.  Or become a vegetable. Or lose your speech.

....and that is why people take anti-parasite pills.

So it's been about 2 weeks since this terrible news was broken to me, and all I can think about is how never, not a single time in my entire 26 years of existence, have I ever taken a pill to kill parasites in my body.

I'm convinced that my insides are crawling with microscopic, and not so microscopic, blood sucking, intestine biting creatures that are taking my life force and starting families in my guts.

Seriously. Could this be the reason for the dark circles under my eyes? The strange abdominal pains that awake me in the night?

Are parasites nocturnal?

I think I've accidentally waited this long because I'm afraid. I don't think I need to explain why or what it is I'm afraid of.

And here's a question: why don't we do this in the USA? Are we the only country that doesn't do this? Do we think we're just immune to parasites? Doesn't anyone know that a good portion of our produce comes form Mexico?

Or, is everyone in on this? Has everyone always been taking measures against parasites?
Am I the only one who didn't know about this?

A Beautiful Life.

So this is the truth of the situation, my living situation.
You have seen the snapshots and read the snippets I share on Facebook, and have likely come to your conclusions about what life is like down here.

But while I was reading an email from a cousin of mine, who shared a little bit about the culture of where she's living in Argentina, I realized I haven't really explained anything.

So here it is. The truth:

México is not a poor country. The government is incredibly wealthy...however the majority of that money sits in political pockets, and doesn't find its way to where it belongs. You know. With the people.

So México is not poor. But there are a lot of poor Mexicans. Unfortunately, the further you live away from México City, the poorer it gets. It's very Hunger-Gamesy. Those in the Federal District have more money. Those furthest away have the least.

I am living in the 2nd poorest state in México, a place called Oaxaca (pronounced wah-ha-kah). While there may not be a ton of money flowing through the state (it's so poor the government has special prices on everything. Gym memberships are 1/3rd the cost that they are just 3 hours north in Puebla. Tortillas are 7 pesos for half a kilo so that people can afford them), the area is very rich in culture. There is a heavy indigenous presence here, and this translates into everything. Walking down the street you hear the various dialects of indigenous languages (such as zapoteco or triqui) being spoken. The pueblos where they live are about 30 minutes outside the city, and there you can encounter generational crafters making weaved goods, alebrijes (one of the most amazing things I've ever encountered in my life), and barro verde/negro - which is pottery specific to this region.

These things can also be encountered in the city, but you get a deeper understanding of the process when you get into the villages.

Many people equate poverty with danger. I am here to confirm that Oaxaca is not a dangerous state. Many of you are aware of what is happening in Guerrero, Michoacan, and on the border. These areas do not represent the majority of México. Yes, what is happening there is very dangerous, and very sad. But, just like Detroit and the south side of Chicago, or the east side of Los Angeles do not speak for the majority of the USA, these rogue regions of México do not represent the entire country.

Like in any city in any country in the world, crime does occur here...but it's not very unlike what you experience in your own town. In fact, Oaxaca is a safer place than Minneapolis...and the weather is much more agreeable.

Speaking of weather, etc., let me paint you a picture of a normal day in the city (for me):

I leave my house at 830am, and I am greeted by the sound of metal security doors being released as businesses begin to open for the day. Traffic is just starting to pick up, and there is a faint smell of exhaust in the air. The sun hits me and instantly warms me up; this time of year it's in the 60s at night and near 80 in the afternoons. Layered clothing is a must.

I check 6 ways before I cross the street, as pedestrians do not have the right of way and cars and bikes come flying out of nowhere all the time. As I cross out of the sun over to a shadier part of the street, I have to pick up my pace to bustle my way ahead of 3 people blocking the sidewalk, and walking very, very slowly. As I get to the next street, a taxi slows down to see if I want to get in, but all they do is impede my path and make me yell ''muevete!!" (move it!). I pass a really old lady with a witches voice, begging for food or money.

"Señora" she croaks at me. "Me regalas comiiiiida? Por favor!?"
Her voice is desperate but I carry on ahead. There will be another hungry woman on the next corner, and a family begging on the next. There is nothing I can do to remedy the situation.

I pass a man playing an accordion. His son asks for monedas, and I give him a handful of suckers. They both seem satisfied.

I look up and get a chance to take in my surroundings. The teachers are still on strike in the Zocalo, making it impossible to walk through. Vendors have taken up the remaining space. It's best to avoid that area, despite how much I love it. It's a mess and beginning to smell.

I go north, and smile as I remember for the 100th time how much I love the colors on the buildings, and the way the clouds sit always stuck in the mountains. The elevation isn't that high, but for whatever reason those clouds always hover there. I'm not paying attention and I almost get hit by a taxi. Neither of us gets angry.

I pass a man selling tamale tortas on the corner (at this time of day, there is a tamale cart on every corner). School kids huddle around him. It's an easy and convenient breakfast (but an awful lot of carbs!). I walk half a block further and buy fruit and juice from a lady with a post in the doorway. $2.50 for breakfast. She sells the best stuff in the city.

A block ahead is Santo Domingo. I decide if I want to go straight, and greet the jewelry vendors, or take a right and go around the backside of the botanical garden. Either way I end up walking through the modestly size Conzatti park, where one group is meeting for a bike ride, and another is having bible study. There's also a tai chi group by the fountain. I say hello to the shoe shiners and nod at the doctors eating breakfast in Cafe Arabia.

I pass a school as I get close to the place where I work. Parents say goodbye to their kids. One mom is wearing sweats, a tshirt, and 4 inch stilettos. I have to stifle a laugh, and then I almost trip over the tree stump of the tree with a face painted on it.

By this time, 5 people have called me güerita, 3 people have said something crass, several have exchange with me polite hellos, and 1 or 2 stray dogs have attempted to follow me to my final destination.

I arrive at work to be greeted by a chorus of ''buenos días! muy buenos días!'' and run to the bathroom (by this time I've been walking for 30 minutes). The septic system in Mexico cannot handle waste paper; everything goes into the waste basket. I wonder to myself if I will get confused when I get back to the states....

After work, I decide to take a shower. I heat my gas water heater with a lighter, and wait 15 minutes for the water to heat up. In the shower, I wash my socks and underwear because the laundromat doesn't do it for you. I am no longer careful to avoid getting the water in my mouth. I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth with it. I'm still alive. I have to remember to turn off the water heater. My house smells like camping for a while afterward...

I like it.

The kitchen does not have hot water, but if I wait to wash my dishes until the afternoon, the sun will have been heating the water tanks on the roof, and I will get hot water for the dishes. Tricky.

I open my windows and a burst of hibiscus flowers is just on the other side. I listen to the traffic, and wonder if tomorrow I'll eat a tlayuda (google it) or settle for pasta in my apartment.

There is always more to share. I could keep writing about food (Oaxaca has a lot to offer. It's best that I just take pictures and do a photo essay to explain it), or people to be encountered throughout the city. I could tell you about the independent art museums, or the atmosphere of the city at night.

But there is time for that in the future.
The point is that there is so much to love and appreciate about this city, and not to share as much as I can would be an utter waste and shame.

It really is a beautiful life. 

Why Oaxaca, and...Don't I Miss My Family?

So, occasionally Jethro and I play the "you ask me a question, and then I ask you a question" game. Yesterday, he asked me the following questions:

1.) Why Oaxaca? 

2.) Don't you miss your family?

A veces, Jethro y yo jugamos el "pregúntame algo" juego. 

Ayer, me preguntó dos preguntas:

1.) ¿Por qué Oaxaca?

2.) ¿Extrañas a tu familia?

I get these questions from other people as well, and figured they'd make for an interesting blog post. If you end up super bored, I apologize. 

Otras personas me han preguntado esto también, y pienso que están buenos temas para un nuevo ''blog post.''

Si mueras de aburrimiento, te ofrezco mis disculpas. 

Actually, I don't. 

Ok, maybe a little. 

...o tal vez no. 

Okay. Quizá un poco. 

Anyway - let's start with #1: Why Oaxaca?

-- When I decided to have the immersion Spanish experience, I asked around. I asked friends who had done Spanish immersion programs all over the place, and they said 1.) do it, it'll work wonders on your Spanish and 2.) go to Oaxaca. 

People who studied in Puebla, Chiapas, Guatemala, Mexico City, and Guadalajara had all come, at some point, to Oaxaca...and it made a big enough impression that all of them said "go there." It didn't hurt that the price was also ridiculously reasonable...and that a lifelong dream of mine to experience a genuine Day of the Dead could be attained in Oaxaca. 

Okay. Vamos a empezar con #1: ¿Por qué Oaxaca?

-- Cuando decidí tener la experiencia de inmersión de español, pregunté a unos amigos que ya habían estudiado en programas en lugares diferentes (en México y otros países) y me dijeron dos cosas... 1.) hazlo! va a ayudar a tu español! y 2.) vete a Oaxaca! 

Gente que había estudiado en Puebla, Chiapas, Guatemala, el DF, y Guadalajara habían visitado a Oaxaca y la ciudad les hizo una impresión fuerte...tan fuerte que todas mis dijeron venir aquí. Y también el precio estaba muy reasonable...y tuve el sueño de tener la experience del Día de los Muertos...y sabía que podría actualizar este sueño aquí. 

So I bought the tickets...and within days was in love. 

Here's the thing...I was born an outsider. I was born in Germany to American parents, I was raised in Japan with blonde hair and blue eyes and an intermediate grasp of the language. I lived overseas longer than I lived in my legal country. I have always been a foreigner everywhere I go, including the US...and if I have to be a gaijin, foreigner, extranjera... I might as well be allowed to choose a place where that doesn't bother me. 

And it doesn't bother me here. 

I finally feel like I have a home, and I refuse to walk away from that feeling. 

Compré mis boletos y me enamoré en unos días. 

Fíjate que siempre he estado una "extranjera." Nací una extranjera. Nací en Alemania a papás de los EEUU, crecí en Japón con cabello rubio y ojos claros y con una comprensión intermedia del idioma. Viví afuera de los EEUU más años que viví en el país. Siempre he estado una extranjera en todas partes, incluso mi ''propio''país...y si tengo que ser un ''gaijin'' o ''foreigner'' or ''extranjera''...¿por qué no elijo el lugar por mi misma? 

Y aquí no me molesta que soy diferente, que soy extranjera, güera, gaijin... porque finalmente me siento como si tuviera un hogar, y me niego rechazar este sentimiento.  

So here comes question #2: Don't you miss your family?

The quick and easy answer is: yes, of course. 

But in the time I've lived overseas, or on the opposite side of the country, I've learned that my family is only ever 12 - 15 hours away (with flights and layover times...25ish hours by vehicle). I grew up understanding that families can love each other without living next door to one another. 

Llegamos a pregunta #2: ¿Extrañas a tu familia?

La respuesta corta es: claro que sí....

...pero en el tiempo que he vivido ''afuera'' o lejos, pero en el mismo país, he aprendido que mi familia siempre está cerca... 12 - 15 horas por avión, o 25 horas por coche. Crecí con el entendimiento de que families pueden querer y apoyar uno a otro sin estar vecinos.  

I do occasionally lament that I can't attend every school function my siblings have, but at the same time they know - without a doubt - that there is no one in this world who loves them more than I do...and that I will easily shake the sun out of the sky to make the important things happen. 

A veces me lamento el hecho de que no había podido asistir cada evento de las vidas de mis hermanitos, pero al mismo tiempo saben que - sin duda - no hay nadie en este mundo que los quiere más que yo, y que fácilmente quitaría al sol del cielo para hacer posible las cosas importantes.  

Plus, living overseas gives my family the opportunity to travel somewhere new and do something exciting. :) 

Además, vivir en otro país presenta a mi familia con la oportunidad para viajar a un lugar nuevo, y hacer algo diferente. 

The hard and dirty truth is this: I'm really happy. 

Oaxaca makes me happy. 

My life here is a happy one. 

My family is happy that I am happy. 

So I suppose, now, I turn the tables and ask you the same questions...

1.) Why are you where you are?

2.)  How does your family factor in the equation?

La verdad - simple y clara es: Estoy muy feliz. 

Estar en Oaxaca me hace feliz. 

Mi vida aquí en una vida feliz. 

Mi familia está feliz porque estoy feliz. 

Ahora, te pregunto las mismas cosas....

1.) ¿Por qué estás donde estás?

2.) ¿Como afecta esto tu familia? 

Hundred. Dollah. Bills.

Picture this:

You are in Billings, Montana. You have a $50 bill in your wallet, and you want some Mountain Dew. That Mountain Dew costs $2.50 (because you're buying it in a bottle, not in a super sized cup). You drive your unnecessarily large truck to the nearest gas station, pick out your bottle, and walk up to the cash register.

The cashier says, "That'll be $2.50." You open your wallet, and hand him a $50 bill.
He gives you $47.50 in change. You say, "Hey, thanks. Have a good one." He nods, and smiles, and says, "See ya around."

And you continue with your life.

Imagínate esto:

Estás en Billings, Montana. Tienes sed, y quieres un Mountain Dew. También tienes USD$50.00 en tu bolsillo. Un Mountain Dew tiene un precio de US$2.50 (porque vas a comprar una botella, no una copa super grande como normal). Manejas tu camioneta enorme al estación de gas, eliges tu botella, y estás lista para pagar. 

El cajero te dice, "Va a costar US$2.50." Abres tu cartera, y le das US$50.00 en efectivo. 
Te da US$47.50 de cambio, se sonríe y te dice, "Gracias. Nos vemos."

Sigues viviendo tu vida. 

Now picture this:

You are in Oaxaca, Oaxaca. You have a 500 peso bill in your pocket (about US$45.00), and you want to eat lunch at your favorite restaurant, with a fixed price menu of 100 pesos. You walk to the restaurant, sit down, eat the delicious food, and then ask for the bill.

You pull a 500 bill out of your pocket, and put it in the check holder. The waiter takes it.
Then he brings it back and asks if you have change. Two things can happen at this point:

1.) You dig through all of your pockets and bags looking for change. You come upon a 200 peso bill. The waiter asks again if you're sure you don't have exact change. You say you're sure. He takes your 200 pesos, but everyone knows he's slightly annoyed.

2.) You don't have change. You begin to apologize profusely. You thought you had 100 pesos. You were sure. The waiter goes to the kitchen, they don't have change. The waiter asks people in the restaurant if they can break 500 pesos. You hang your head in a shame. They say no (because change for 500 pesos does not exist). Finally, the waiter leaves the restaurant and goes to a neighboring store where someone breaks the 500 peso bill.

Ahora, imagínate esto:

Estás en Oaxaca. Tienes 500 pesos en tu cartera y quieres comer en tu restaurante favorito, con un menú diario de 100 pesos. Caminas al restaurent, te sientas, y comes bien. Le pides al mesero la cuenta, y cuando llegue, pongas 500 de efectivo adentro. El mesero lo lleva....y regresa para preguntarte si tienes cambio. 

Ahora, 2 cosas pueden pasar:

1.) Empiezas buscar frenéticamente en todos tus bolsillos, tu mochila, etc. Encuentres 200 pesos. El mesero te pregunta otra vez si no tienes cambio exacto. Le dices que no, estás seguro que no tienes cambio exacto y el mesero se va con un poco de frustración en su cara. 

2.) No tienes cambio. No sabes cómo pasó esto. Estabas seguro que tenía cambio contigo, pensaste que había 100 pesos en tu cartera. Tienes vergüenza y no puedes mirar a nadie en la cara. El mesero empieza a preguntar a la gente en el restaurante si tienen cambio. Por supuesto, nadie lo tiene. Finalmente, el mesero se va a otra empresa y regresa con tu cambio. 

I have discovered that there are really only 3 ways you can change out 500 pesos:
1.) Have a really good relationship with someone who owns a high traffic business, and be careful not to abuse the 500 peso bill breaking more than 2x a month.
2.) Have a local bank account, and stand in the epically long lines at the bank in hopes that the cashier will break your money.
3.) Buy something that costs more than 300 pesos (but then you're spending a lot of money...to get change...)

Every time I see people running between businesses with bills in their hands, I laugh.
I get it.
It is the game of the 500 peso bill.
A dance. A puzzle. A joke.

He descubierto que realmente solo hay 3 maneras en que puedes recibir cambio de 500 pesos:

1.) Tienes que tener un buen amigo que tiene una empresa con muchos clientes. 
2.) Tienes que tener una cuenta de banco aquí, y tener paciencia con las filas, y también suerte de que el cajero vaya a cambiar tu dinero. 
3.) Tienes que comprar algo que cuesta más que 300 pesos (pero vas a perder 300 pesos, y solo vas a tener ~200 de cambio). 

Cada vez que veo a una persona correr entre negocios, con la esperanza de cambiar dinero, tengo que reírme. 
De repente, lo entiendo. 
Es el juego de los 500.
Es un baile. Un rompecabeza. Una broma. 

And I find that there are no words that describe, in full detail, the look on someones face when you pull out a 500 bill...or when someone walks into a room and asks if someone has change for 500.

It is a pained and exasperated expression which translates roughly to: sorry, I can't help...but boy, do I feel your pain.

If it were up to me, the 500 peso bill would be an ancient artifact.
It is not needed.
It is unwanted.
It has no admirers.

And now, for a musical accompaniment...

Y no hay palabras para explicar la mirada en la cara de alguien cuando otra persona entra el cuarto y pregunta, "alguien tiene cambio de 500?"

Es una mirada que dice algo entre, "Claro que no, pero entiendo muy bien tu posición."

Si podría eliminar el billete de 500, lo haría. 
No es querido. 
No es necesario. 
No tiene ningún amigo ni admirador. 

y ahora...para una canción del tema... 

Put A Smile On Your Face.

Growing up (and even now) my dad would always tell us that happiness is a choice.
He would say that when you wake up, you get to decide: Am I going to be happy today? Or am I going to be (insert unhappy emotion here).

Now, he'd typically say this when one of us kids was in a particularly bad mood, and hearing that we were choosing to be in a bad mood often just made us (more) mad.

And maybe at that age it wasn't totally a choice; a lot of it was hormonal.
But, there was still some choice involved.

Now that I'm a rational, grown human being I can easily understand where he was coming from with that little bit of insight.

He's right.
He's always been right.

Every day, I wake up and I get to choose the path my day will take; it's always easier to take the positive path.

Even on a bad day, or when things get rough...it's still easier to be positive, to choose to be happy in spite of the issues.

Life was never made easier by frowning or wallowing.
So, yes. Sometimes life gets weird and hard. Sometimes a miserable day is absolutely necessary.
Sometimes life throws curveballs.

But life is too short to waste it feeling sorry for ourselves...for wallowing, for worrying, for anger.
Instead, we should look ahead towards the things we know we enjoy, and move through our struggles with a positive attitude.

Way more can be done to address what's bothering you if you carry a clear head on your shoulders, and a smile on your face.

And now for a list of 10 things that make me happy:
1.) butterflies
2.) snuggling with babies
3.) the trike (a motorcycle)
4.) good friends
5.) fresh pressed juices
6.) avocados
7.) sunshine
8.) learning new things
9.) daisies
10.) running