Kindergarten Day at the Pool

The day after the Oasis graduation, the school sponsored a day trip to a water park just outsideof Chihuahua. Only the kindergarten and 6th graders were invited to attend, along with their parents and sponsors; the rest of the classes had smaller parties at places like McDonald's and KFC. Esperanza invited me to attend the day at the water park, and of course I went. Not only was I excited to go on yet another trip with the rarámuri (they are always fantastic bonding experiences, and I learn so much), I was really looking forward to a day at the pool. The average temperature in Chihuahua in the summer, just like El Paso, is about 100 degrees F. So it was a nice break to conduct my "field work" for a day at a pool rather than in the dusty settlement!

There is a small water park just before the Chihuahua city limits, with two large slides and three large swimming pools, including one for children. It is located in the middle of the desert, just off the highway that takes you to Ciudad Juárez. There are a few ranch houses and fields that grow cotton and alfalfa, and chains of mountains line the highway just miles away. It really is a small oasis in the middle of the desert: the pools are large and clean, the water is cool, and the view of mountains and open deserts just beyond the park is spectacular.

Jiovana and I wading in the childrens' pool

We had the park to ourselves. Three rarámuri mothers accompanied the group, along with six teachers. In total, we were about 25 people with the entire park to ourselves. That morning, I wasn't sure if I was going to swim, since I doubted the mothers would get into the pool; and if I did, I knew it would not be in my swimsuit, but in shorts and a t-shirt. The ráramuri are very modest and I would have felt extremely awkward wearing my swimsuit in front of them, even if they are all women. When we got to the pool, the mothers said they were not going to get in, just as I suspected. They stayed by the edge of the pool and watched the children play. I sat with them for a while, but after 15 minutes I couldn't withstand the temptation and I changed into shorts and a t-shirt and got into the pool with all the children. One of the jokes among the women is that I am a "teweke," or little girl, despite my 24 years. I initially earned this teasing nickname because I am 24 years old and and still husband-less and child-less, but over the course of the year I solidified the nickname by my behavior with the children--we run, play with toys, and even play-fight all the time. That day was no exception--I jumped straight into the pool and spent the day playing with the kids and screaming on my way down the water slides. After a while, a few of the teachers joined me, so I wasn't the only adult acting like a kid!

Rosa Angela's little boy had too much sun and fell asleep on the cool deck right before lunch.

It was such a treat to watch the rarámuri kids enjoy the pools. It is very rare that these children get to visit a park like this--most days, the children play in the arroyo behind Oasis, or on the street amidst all kinds of dangers: broken glass, speeding cars, drunks, drug addicts, and once in a while even a woman who comes around offering to buy rarámuri kids.

I think the mothers got a little bored sitting on the edge of the pool for almost eight hours. At one point they wandered to the back of the park and started filling plastic bags with weeds and grass. I knew immediately what they had found: guasoli, the edible herb that I sometimes accompany the women to search for in arroyos throughout the city. Some of the teachers were asking each other what the women were doing, and I was able to explain to them. It was

hilarious--trust the ráramuri to spot edible herbs in the unkept edges of the water park.

We were there until 6 PM, and I returned to my apartment with a glorious sunburn and feeling like a kid. It was a nice break from daily life for everyone who went.

There were three large pools for adults, one childrens' pool with games, and these two fantastic water slides. I must have gone down each of them about 20 times that day!

Esperanza and some of the teachers eating "carne asada" and "discada" for lunch.

The women didn't swim. Instead, they watched the children swim and chatted in the shade.

Jiovana wading in the childrens' pool.

In the afternoon, we returned to Oasis and told Julissa about our day. Her class went to KFC for their party earlier that day. The Kinder and 6th grade were given a bigger party because their graduations were greater milestones.

Oasis Elementary School Graduation

When Oasis became a government-sponsored rarámuri settlement in 1974, one of the government's first projects was to build an elementary school exclusively for rarámuri children within the walls of the settlement. Prior to its inception, rarámuri children attempted to enter the neighborhood elementary school, but discrimination by mestizo teachers and children discouraged rarámuri children and their parents from attending. Building the exclusive school inside the settlement was the government's solution to providing the rarámuri children with education in a safe environment. Moreover, the school is supposed to reinforce rarámuri identity by providing half the education in their native language. Textbooks are in both rarámuri and Spanish, and most of the teachers have rarámuri roots. I have mixed feelings about this system. On the one hand, it's great that the rarámuri are encouraged to learn their language in a formal setting (although most of the schoolday tends to be in Spanish, since all of the teachers are actually only conversant in rarámuri, despite their roots). On the other hand, building separate schools does not solve the original problem of discrimination. So while the Oasis school may reinforce cultural identity, it does little to help rarámuri and mestizo children build relationships.

Despite my misgivings about this system, there is no doubt that the school inside Oasis has a very important impact on the social structure of the community. Several times this year I had the chance to observe the ways in which the Oasis community gathers together for events sponsored by the school. The biggest event, which most Oasis rarámuri regard as equally important to Christmas and Holy Week festivities, is the graduation ceremony which takes place at the end of June each year, when all Mexican elementary and middle schools let out for the summer. When I asked about important events to attend in Oasis back in October, when I was first starting my field work, all the rarámuri I spoke to mentioned the graduation along with all the other festivities.

I marked the graduation in my calendar months ahead and had plans to attend as a guest, but two weeks before the graduation Esperanza asked me to be Jiovana's "madrina," or godmother, for her kindergarten graduation. In Mexico, it is customary for students who are graduating from important grades--such as kindergarten, middle school, and high school--to have a sponsor, which they call a "madrina" or "padrino." The sponsor's responsibilities are to attend the graduation and walk their student up to the podium to receive the diploma. It is also customary to give the student a gift and perhaps some encouragement or advice for the next step in their education. When Esperanza asked me to be Jiovana's sponsor, I was sitting on her front step sewing a skirt that I planned to give Jiovana. She approached me and said, "do you want to be Jiovana's sponsor for her kindergarten graduation? I asked all my sisters, but none of them had enough money." I asked her what she meant about the money, and she explained that the school was asking each sponsor to contribute 100 pesos to help pay for the event. I was thrilled to be asked and immediately agreed to do it.

I arrived the day of the graduation with a gift and a pair of sandals in my bag, since Esperanza had told me she would lend me one of her dresses to wear for the ceremony. For the first time ever, she invited me into the back room of her house, the bedroom, to change (previously I had only been in the kitchen). She gave me three dresses to choose from: a black and white one, a brown one with small colored flowers, and an orange one, which is the one I ended up choosing. She also lent me a traditional belt, and I wore my own sandals. It was very fun wearing a traditional rarámuri dress and the women got a kick out of seeing me in it--they laughed at me, complimented me, and talked to me in rarámuri.

The ceremony itself was very nice, with each class performing a different dance for their parents and government officials that showed up to support the settlement. The kindergarten and 6th grade, being the ones who were ending an entire phase of schooling, danced waltzes. I walked Jiovana up to the podium to receive her kindergarten diploma, then handed her her gift: a Disney princess school kit, two yellow bows for her hair, a headband, and a box of crayons. It was a great moment, I felt like part of the community.

After the ceremony, which took place on the basketball court, the school sponsors a dance. For days, there was a rumor that the party would not take place because of the recent murder, but the teachers got a police officer to agree to be present throughout the entire event and they were able to hold the traditional party until 10 PM. The party is what really draws most people to the event, but unlike the Christmas and Holy Week parties, during which most mothers will put their children to bed, the children were allowed to stay up late to dance, play, and eat alongside the adults.

Participating in the graduation was a fantastic experience, and I hope to see Jiovana continue to graduate for many years to come. A few days later, her sister graduated from a mixed middle school, an impressive accomplishment. I definitely have plans to keep in touch with Esperanza and her family when I leave Chihuahua, which will happen very soon.

The 1st Grade class posing for a picture on the basketball court inside Oasis with their teacher.

Me and several rarámuri girls who were graduating that day. I was asked to be the "madrina," godmother, to Jiovana, the little girl in the red dress. Her mother said all participants would be wearing rarámuri dresses, so she lent me the beautiful orange dress I am wearing.

Posing with several girls graduating from 3rd grade. Julissa is the one in the orange dress with white headband.

Jiovana and I inside her house, and the first time I was invited into the back room. Previously I had only been invited into the first room, which is the kitchen, to eat. Esperanza photographed us.

The Kindergarten Class waiting to receive their diplomas.

Before the ceremony began, every class performed a dance. These are the 3rd grade girls, who performed traditional matachin dances (ritual dances performed during December) along with the boys in their class.

The 3rd grade male matachin dancers.

Rarámuri girls graduating from 6th grade, the final year of "primaria," or elementary school. Next they will be integrated with mestizo children in the neighborhood "secundaria," or middle school. These were my favorite dresses of the night; the design is very elaborate with the repeating triangle patterns. Every year, the girls in each class get to decide what their "uniform" will be for that year; that is, they decide what their class dress will look like, and then their mothers sew them each the same dress.

A tragedy in Oasis

I returned on Monday from a week-long trip to Mexico City to interview for jobs (I ended up getting a position as an Assistant English Teacher at a prestigious British international school). When I returned to the Colonia Martín Lopez, I stopped in with Chita to catch up on the events I missed. The only thing she talked about was the murder of a young rarámuri man, aged about 20 or 21. This is what happened:
Around 12:30 AM on Sunday, a drunk chabochi wandered into the settlement and found a rarámuri girl standing by the entrance. The girl was 12-year-old Mara, the oldest daughter of Rosa Angela. The drunkard was attempting to rape her in front of the church when the young rarámuri man, Lorenzo, husband of Laura and father to two infant girls, walked by and saw the rape taking place. Since most of the rarámuri sleep and wake with the sun, it was unusual that any rarámuri would have walked by in time to stop the rape. Lorenzo interfered and pulled the drunk chabochi off the girl. The drunkard swung at Lorenzo and a fight ensued. At some point, the drunkard pulled out a small knife and stuck Lorenzo several times in the abdomen. He also cut Mara's legs when she tried to interfere. The drunkard took off when Lorenzo stopped defending himself and lay still on the pavement. Mara alerted the closest rarámuri family, who alerted Chita, who immediately called the police and went to the settlement to set matters straight herself. She attempted to help Lorenzo, but he had been stabbed too many times--he needed a hospital. Chita says the police arrived very quickly and were very helpful--within minutes they caught the drunkard and sent for an ambulance, but Lorenzo died before the ambulance arrived.

Chita is of course very distraught and spent a lot of time describing how impotent she felt. One of her life goals is to help the rarámuri of Oasis attain a healthier lifestyle--better education and economic opportunities, better nutrition, and a safe neighborhood for the children to play in.

It turns out Lorenzo was Esperanza's cousin. I returned to Oasis two days after the murder occurred, and I found the rarámuri very serious and quiet. As far as I can tell, daily activities are still continuing: the children go to school, the women sit outside to sew, and they walk up the street to go grocery shopping. Julissa and Jiovana told me about the murder themselves, but they spoke as if they were telling me the plot of a movie; in other words, they don't seem to have been traumatized by the event, although they say that they will never again step out of their houses after dark.

There has been one important change. The races have been suspended indefinitely, since they need to take place at sunset due to the treacherous heat during the day.

A few scattered reflections about rarámuri concept of time vs. Western concept of time

Many months ago, an anthropologist friend mentioned off-hand that the rarámuri have a different way of measuring time, that the entire concept of time as I know it is non-existent in rarámuri culture. That time is an invention, in all the forms that we rely on: seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries. The rarámuri measure time differently; even concepts that I take for granted, such as the idea of "a long time" and "a little while" take on different meaning in rarámuri culture, or perhaps do not exist at all. Once I attended a political meeting with about 15 rarámuri women from Oasis, of all ages. The youngest was 2 years old and the oldest was probably well past her sixties. We all had to fill out registration forms so that the political campaign could have our information to contact us, and of course the forms ask everyone their age. The younger rarámuri women born in the city know how to read and write, but many of the women born and raised in the Sierra do not know how, so campaign volunteers helped them by asking the questions on the forms and filling them out for them. When they asked the women their age, most of them answered "I don't know." I heard one volunteer, a young man dressed in a suit, say to Teresa, grandmother of 19 and great-grandmother of one, "which month do you like? Just choose one." He was smiling at her, teasing her lightly, but I thought it was disrespectful.

Cuka and Esperanza don't know how old they are. Cuka has three children, aged 14, 12 and 9. Esperanza has two children, aged 15 and 6. From looking at them, I figure the women are about 32 or 33 years old, but they could well be younger...or older. Chita, the mestizo neighbor who knows all the happenings in Oasis, says that Cuka arrived to Oasis with her parents and her new husband when she was probably about 14 years old, but there is no way to be sure. Rarámuri mothers who live deep in the Sierra usually don't travel to hospitals or clinics to give birth, so their babies never receive birth certificates. What's more, they are so physically far from Western society and its conventions that they never attend school, which means they never learn to keep track of time with a calendar. When I asked Esperanza how old she was, she answered, "I don't know. My mom never knew what year it was."

With migration to the city, most young rarámuri enter school and become familiar with Western ideas of time, although I think many of them (including Julissa and Jiovanna) find themselves between two cultures, two sets of established norms and ideologies. In traditional rarámuri culture, age is measured by the body's changes. As a female, you are a teweke (girl) until menstruation begins, and then you become an iweke (woman) and it is time to begin activities that iwekes do: find a partner, have children, learn to sew and cook and care for children. The idea of teenage or adolescent years is non-existent, although I can see traces of Western influence in many rarámuri families in Oasis. For example, Esperanza's daughter is 15 and does not have a partner, does not plan to have one anytime soon, and does not know how to cook or sew. Esperanza once said that she wants her daughters to enjoy their youth and not work or take on the responsibilities of marriage and adulthood until they are about 18--a very Western way of measuring time and age. More and more, mothers who do not know their own age are adopting this idea and raising their children by it.

And yet, the women often tease me for being 24 years old and still unmarried and childless. They teasingly call me "teweke" (girl) when most Westerners would consider me a young woman. They often ask me when I am going to settle down and have kids, and are very amused when I say I have no plans in the near future.

My anthropologist friend remarked once that events in Oasis are never scheduled for a specific time, and that "a long while" for us is often considered a short time for the rarámuri. I have observed this in the hours upon hours that the rarámuri spend dancing matachines during December and dancing as fariseos during Holy Week. Dancing often doesn't stop even throughout the night, and physical exhaustion does not seem to be a factor in calculating how long the dances should last. The same with the races: in the Sierra, they can last for days, but even in the city I have witnessed races of distances and length of time that I could never even dream of completing myself, but are a norm within their culture. It is very difficult to articulate and form conclusions about such a theoretical topic, but I really feel that the way the rarámuri measure age and the passage of time is an extremely important marker of cultural identity. Certainly a lot of these thoughts have caused me to question why I measure my life the way I do, and why I possess certain ideas and behaviors--all things to explore in more writing to come.

Eligia

Yesterday I arrived to Oasis and found the settlement empty. In the hall where I have most of my friends, and consequently spend most of my time, all the women and children were gone. Esperanza went shopping with Jiovanna, Cuka had taken Julissa to a park, Susannah and Marcela were gone, and I had run into Marta on the street taking her twin boys out for a stroll. The only woman I found yesterday when I arrived was Eligia, the indigenous governor's wife, washing clothes in a cement sink as four of her eight children played nearby.

When I first arrived to Oasis and presented myself to the governor, Chita warned me to be careful with Eligia because she was known to be jealous. I have never witnessed these episodes of possessiveness and jealousy that Chita has described to me, but I have had an extraordinarily hard time getting close to her. Her children are adorable; as I mentioned, she has eight, six of whom are girls. The oldest, Andrea, is fifteen and was recently sent to a Jesuit boarding school for rarámuris in the Sierra (a typical practice, and a very good one, since it puts young teens in a controlled and disciplined environment and takes them away from the drugs and gangs of the colonias in which they live). After Andrea, the next one is twelve, and the youngest is two. I have great relationships with all of them; they are so sweet, it is impossible not to love them.

It is clear that Eligia struggles and has to work hard every day taking care of so many young children. Maybe that is why she hasn't been so receptive toward me--I wouldn't waste my time with me either if I had so many clothes to wash, diapers to change, and mouths to feed. I think she is about 35 years old, but like so many other rarámuri women, she looks older. She is well-liked in the community and seems to possess a sarcastic sense of humor, which I sense from the tone she often uses when chatting with other women (I usually can't understand her, she speaks fast).

For a few seconds yesterday, I felt at a loss for what to do, since all the women I usually talk with were gone. But then I decided to sit on Eligia's front stoop and work on my new dress, which I am making for Jiovanna. Eligia looked up and smiled at me, the first time ever. Her kids came closer and watched me work for a minute, then went back to play. When Eligia finished the washing, she took out her sewing and sat on the ground a few feet away from me. We mostly sat in silence, but a few times she looked over to see how my sewing was coming along, and made some encouraging remarks. She speaks very little Spanish, which is another reason she has perhaps been hesitant to talk to me.

Without conversation, I got a little lost in my thoughts and started thinking about those things which usually occupy my mind when I'm not with the rarámuri or doing writing about them: graduate school applications, preparing a great writing sample, finding a job for after my Fulbright year is over, what I want to do this weekend, and lately, visiting the beach. I was pretty engrossed in these thoughts when I glanced up and saw that Eligia was stitching without looking at her work because she was watching me work. Her two-year-old daughter, Ines, had her head inside her mother's shirt sucking on a breast. Eligia was working on monitos, which her daughters would sell on the weekend. I thought then that I only have two months left to be with the rarámuri, and then I will move on to something new. I can only guess what goes through Eligia's mind when she is sitting quietly feeding her toddler and making dolls to sell, but I know her thoughts and her reality are a world away from my own. I decided to chat with her, so I started asking her questions about her children, and she answered them, smiling several times. Then she asked me about my family, and we spent the rest of the afternoon talking a little every few minutes as we sewed.

"Monitos"

Every Friday, Julissa tells me not to bother visiting Oasis over the weekend because she won't be there. I love how Julissa and Jiovanna think the purpose of my days in Oasis is to visit just them (but more and more, I feel less like I'm conducting field research and more like I really am just visiting friends). Weekends in Oasis are fairly uneventful, since most of the rarámuri women use Saturday and Sunday for shopping, going out for a stroll or to the park, or for selling crafts and candy at shopping centers, downtown, or at one of the dams, which are popular fishing spots for mestizos. I think I'm not off base in saying that what a rarámuri family does on a weekend is an excellent indicator of their economic status. Jiovanna and her family spend the weekends relaxing, often taking a short trip to a national park outside the city in Jiovanna's father's pick-up truck. But Julissa is one of many children who has to work on weekends. It took many months for her to open up about it, but lately she has been telling me more and more about her experiences selling "monitos," little Tarahumara dolls, at various locations throughout the city.

On Saturdays, Julissa and several other little girls walk up to the Kentucky Fried Chicken just three blocks from Oasis and stand at the drive-thru window selling dolls. I don't always visit Oasis on Saturdays, but when I do, I make sure to stop by the KFC to say hello. At first, the girls were shy about waving at me--they were embarrassed that I saw them working, I think. It felt strange not to have them greet me with huge smiles and run up to me to hug me. It was one of those moments in which I realized that the rarámuri really do live in their own world, despite the fact that they share public spaces with chabochis.

But a couple days ago, Julissa felt like revealing more details about her weekends. I already knew that Saturdays are dedicated to selling at the KFC, and Sundays she and her mother walk to the dam to sell to the fishing crowds. What I learned a couple days ago is that Julissa and the other girls typically arrive to the KFC at 10 AM and stay until 4 PM, or sometimes even until 8 PM, if business has been slow. I ask her if they get to eat, and she said their moms pack them lunches, and sometimes mestizos will buy them chicken or mashed potatoes from KFC. Julissa sells an average of 10 dolls a day. At 10 pesos each (a little less than $1 U.S. dollar), Julissa earns 100 pesos (or less than $10 U.S. dollars) standing in the heat or cold selling dolls for six to ten hours each Saturday.

It's hot in Chihuahua now. All week we were between 95 and 100 degrees, and summer hasn't even started yet. Yesterday I drank 1.5 L of water in two hours and still had a headache from walking in the sun with Cuka and Julissa for half an hour. Julissa is very young and doesn't seem to be terribly affected by the extreme heat, but anyone who has to stand outside for six hours is at risk for dehydration and heat stroke. And all day, every day, there are rarámuri women standing at the most trafficked intersections trying to make a living. The typical Chihuahuense inside an air-conditioned car comments that the rarámuri are too lazy to work and prefer standing on a street corner asking for handouts. One day, a mestizo should try selling dolls for six hours during the summer and then decide if it is laziness that keeps the rarámuri selling little crafts or candy, or even seeking kórima, on the streets.

Julissa was very funny yesterday imitating mestizos who buy dolls from her. She did an imitation of a dialogue for me, complete with voices and facial expressions. This is how a typical dialogue between her and a potential buyer pulling up to the KFC window goes:

Julissa: "compre monito" ("buy a doll")

Mestizo: "A cuánto los vendes?" ("how much do you sell them for?")

Julissa: "diez pesos" ("ten pesos")

Mestizo takes a look at the dolls Julissa holds up to display. "No tienes de vestido morado?" ("do you have one with a purple dress?")

Julissa: "no."

Mestizo: "o de azul? o amarillo? o rojo?" (or blue? or yellow? or red?) Here, Julissa began talking very fast, imitating the mestizos demanding dolls with different colored dresses.

Finally, mestizo stops asking for colors that Julissa doesn't have in her display. Mestizo then starts inspecting the dolls' faces, which are made with brown cloth and have white eyes and red lips stitched with yarn.

Mestizo: "Este tiene muy fea boca...y este también...este sí me gusta" ("This one has an ugly mouth...this one too...I like this one.")

Finally, Julissa makes a sale. I asked her if mestizos ever say anything nice to her, ever compliment her dress or something. "No," she answered shortly, then changed the subject.

The girls at their sale post outside the KFC. They were too embarrassed to turn and look into the camera.

Julissa is the one in the orange dress hiding her face. The one in the pink skirt is Elena, and the one in the green is Erika. All three are in third grade together.

Eligia, Erika's mother, sat on the sidewalk with two of her younger daughters making more "monitos" and keeping an eye on the older girls as they sold. In rarámuri culture, children are expected to help their parents with their work, a practice which in the Sierra means helping tend to the harvest. In the city, this practice often means selling "monitos" which their mothers make.

One of Erika's little sisters peeking through a KFC window at chabochi customers eating.

On a different day, Julissa showing me how she displays the "monitos," as they call the little dolls, to customers at the KFC drive-thru on Saturdays.

Sewing a rarámuri dress...and then betting it on a race

For several months, I was in the habit of sitting down with the women in front of their houses or the little church and watching them sew. Sewing is an enormously important activity for the rarámuri women, both in the Sierra and the desert, and has fascinating anthropological implications. For example, sewing is strictly a womens' activity, and as I have sat for hours chatting with women as they sew, I have observed how this activity brings the women together to not only work, but talk. They share news, watch each other's children, have snacks together, and ultimately form very strong bonds. The "sewing circles" are also important economic activities, since the women are either making dresses which they plan to bet on a race, or they are making little rarámuri dolls ("monitos," they call them) which they sell at intersections for 10 pesos each. The ritual aspect is seen in so many places: in the repetition of the activity on a daily basis, in the colorful materials the women consider most beautiful, in the same dress pattern used over and over again.

For months I observed all of these things, but the actual practice of sewing--what it feels like to hold a needle, to make stitches, to choose and combine patterns and fabrics--did not form part of my experience with the rarámuri. It wasn't until two months ago, when two friends from New Mexico came to visit, that I finally moved from being an observer in the rarámuri sewing circles to a student, and now a (more or less) full-fledged member.

My first sewing lesson took place two months ago, one March afternoon, when my friend Flora bought several meters of blue, yellow, pink, and flower-patterned fabric and came to Oasis with me. That day, there were several sewing circles in progress throughout the settlement, as there usually are. The women generally prefer to sew outside, because the houses are small, dark, and overcrowded; outside, many can gather at one time and there is plenty of sunlight. I decided to approach Marcela and Susannah, two very kind rarámuri women, and announced that Flora and I wanted to make a rarámuri dress. They said "alright," allowed us to sit down with them, and showed us how to tear fabric into long, wide strips that we would piece together to form a skirt. But prior to tearing the fabric and stitching the pieces together, we spent several minutes discussing what colors to use. Flora suggested some combination, I suggested another, and both were rejected by the rarámuri women. This is when I first came to understand that the rarámuri women are very particular about color combinations and patterns, and there is an entire code of fashion (at least within this settlement) to follow. At their suggestion, Flora and I agreed the full skirt would be pink, with a blue piece in the middle, and a yellow hem.

My sewing lessons continued on a regular basis throughout the next six weeks. Normally, it takes a good rarámuri seamstress five to seven days to complete a full dress; I took six weeks to complete just the skirt! It started to get really embarrassing around week four, because every day women would ask me "are you almost finished?" and then laugh when I showed them my progress. But my teachers kept making me undo stitches and start over every time they were badly done, which happened very often (especially when I was doing the hems--that is by far the hardest part).

Marcela and Susannah were not my only teachers during this process. Esperanza showed me many techniques, especially when it came to making the pleats. Chavela helped me perfect the hem, which requires rolling the fabric into a very thin strip and making tiny, almost invisible stitches. Cuka, Carolina, and Maria Rosa also checked up on me frequently and offered their advice. I moved around to different sewing circles throughout the process, heard different news about different families, learned different sewing techniques, and laughed when one rarámuri woman would tell me that another rarámuri woman was teaching me badly.

Throughout Semana Santa, I sat in the basketball court sewing and watching the rarámuri men dance the ritual "fariseo" and "soldado" dances. In the weeks after, as I moved among the different sewing circles, my favorite one came to be Esperanza'a, Cuka's, Teresa's, and Maria Rosa's. I spent many, many days sitting in a shady patch in front of Esperanza's house with these women, learning new words in rarámuri and trying to understand them as they talked to each other in rarámuri.

Of course, Julissa, Jiovanna, and Lorena were with me throughout the entire experience. For one week, Julissa and Jiovanna even decided that they would learn to sew, and that I would teach them. So I, a chabochi, gave two rarámuri girls their first sewing lessons ever! I cut two strips of colored fabric, gave each girl a needle, and had them make rows of stitches using different colored thread. Julissa got pretty good, and even went on to make a little skirt for a doll, under her mother's direction. Jiovanna is barely six, but her mother says she will have to learn in the next two years.

The entire time I was working on the dress, different women and children would ask me what I was planning to do with it when I finished it. "Are you going to wear it?" several people asked me. "I'm going to bet it on a race," I replied, which always provoked a smile. My mestizo friends would tell me, "it's your first dress, you should keep it as a memory. Don't bet it, what if you lose it?" But I always thought it would be even better if I lost it! Carolina told me a few weeks ago that she recently gave up betting her favorite dresses on races, because it was painful to lose them so often. I can imagine how horrible it must feel to lose your favorite article of clothing. Every woman likes to have a lot of pretty clothes, but even when everything in your closet is pretty, there are always two or three articles that you love above all others. I try to imagine what it would be like to lose my favorite dress--a midnight blue stretch satin Calvin Klein with a sweetheart neckline. It would be fabulous to bet it against another beautiful dress and win both in the end, but I know I would cry if I lost it! After losing one very treasured dress in a bet, Carolina tried to buy it back from the woman she lost it to, but the other woman refused to sell it back. Then the woman moved back to the Sierra and took the dress with her, and Carolina never saw it again. After this incident, Carolina decided to tone down the gambling and now only bets dresses she doesn't love. But I wanted to get into the full betting craze and bet my first dress, the most special one I will probably ever make because it's my first.

Still, the moment I finished it, I knew I didn't want to bet it. I wanted to take it home, show it off to my non-rarámuri friends, who had been tracking my progress almost as carefully as the rarámuri. I just wanted to hold onto it for a few days, try it on, take a couple pictures in it, hang it proudly in my closet. As soon as I finished it, I got up and walked around the settlement to show off my accomplishment. Most of the women were at the entrance, gathering skirts to bet for a race. As soon as Susannah saw me hold up the skirt, she said, "Come on, Victoria, time to bet it." I told her I didn't want to, and she made a face at me. "Come on, Victoria," someone else said. I made a face back, but then I thought, "how many people are actually encouraged to participate in rarámuri bets?" I said, "okay," and tossed it on the ground, prepared to engage in my first skirt-betting experience.

Betting dresses on rarámuri races follows the same basic concept as any other kind of betting: two dresses of equal value must be bet against each other. Just like you wouldn't bet $10 for $5, you wouldn't bet a rarámuri dress of less value for one of greater value. Now, deciding the value of a dress is the complicated part, because it is very subjective. There are some criteria for judging the value of a dress: the quality of stitching is taken into account, as is the newness of the dress. You won't bet a brand new dress for an old, faded one; and you won't bet a dress that is falling apart at the seams for one that is tightly and cleanly stitched. But then you have to take into account the aesthetic value of the dress, and that is highly subjective and very personal. This is the part that makes the betting process take three to four hours total every time. Here is a typical scenario: Rarámuri woman from Team A has a dress that is orange and blue flowers against a green backdrop, with a white hem. She has her eye on a blue dress with pink daisies and an orange hem that she sees in Team B's betting pile. With the help of the assigned intermediary, rarámuri woman from Team A proposes betting her dress against the desired one from Team B. But the dress's owner, who we will call rarámuri woman from Team B, doesn't want to agree to the bet because she thinks Team A rarámuri woman's dress is ugly. So she says: "I'll bet you my dress, but not against the one you propose. Instead, pair it with the green-and-white polkadot I know you have in your house." Team A rarámuri woman doesn't want to, but she is willing to bet a yellow one with purple flowers and a red hem. And so the arguing and debating continues, until both women come to some kind of agreement. This conversation occurs at least fifteen times, when the women feel like being difficult (some women will bet anything against anything, just for fun), and this is why the entire betting process takes up so many hours before the race even begins.

I was really looking forward to seeing what dresses would be offered against mine. As I sat with my team, my team's intermediary took my skirt over to the other team to see if there was any interest in it. I was excited to see what options she would come back with for me. About five minutes later, she returned with a bundle of jungle-green fabric. "This is what they propose to bet your skirt for, so that you can make another dress," ("para que te pongas a hacer otra," were the exact words). My entire team broke into laughter, and then I did too. I'm still not sure if they bet material against my skirt just to mess with me, or because they really think the quality of my stitching is so terrible that they can't find a fair match for it. Either way, it was a hilarious event! In the end, I agreed to the proposed bet, but one lap into the race, the girl from the other team got a cramp in her leg and the race was called off. Everyone's bets were returned to them, so I ended up keeping my skirt for a couple days in the end. However, I'm taking it with me to the settlement every day, and I'm sure there will be another race this weekend, so I hope to bet it then!

Resistance

Mónica sent me an article about two indigenous women who decided to go shopping in Antara, an upscale mall in Mexico City. I have never been there, but I often see the mall featured in magazines, advertising designer clothes by Prada, Versace and the like. One day last week, two indigenous women from Chiapas were touring the ritzy district of Polanco, where Antara is located, and came across the mall. They decided to go inside and take a look around. The story is in Spanish and worth the read if you understand the language: (http://hazmeelchingadofavor.com/index.php/2010/05/13/no-tienes-que-ir-a-arizona-para-ser-discriminado-en-antara-polanco-te-tratan-igual/, http://www.eluniversal.com.mx/sociedad/5791.html). But for those of you who don't read Spanish, here is a summary of events: the women walk into the mall dressed in their traditional skirts and blouses. Naturally, they draw stares--two indigenous women shopping in the ritziest mall in all of Mexico? Apparently security guards were notified and told to keep an eye on the women. They were prohibited from taking a picture in front of a fountain. Later, at a restaurant, waiters made fun of the women a few feet from the table and served them with exaggerated politeness.

The article reminded me of a story Carolina told me the day we went shopping downtown. At one point, we walked by the historic Hotel San Francisco and the adjacent restaurant, Degás. My mom and I stayed in this hotel when we first arrived in Chihuahua and ate at this restaurant several times. There is a Degás in Juárez (or was...who knows if it's still open with all the extortions that are occurring in Juárez these days!), and we used to go every once in a while. It is a very nice restaurant, in a classy old Mexican style: polished wooden tables and booths, cream-colored walls with framed paintings, waiters in bow-ties and black vests over crisp white shirts. Degás is renowned for serving classic norteño dishes, such as enchiladas, flautas, and dressed-up burritos. I really like this restaurant, both in Juárez and in Chihuahua.

As we walked by it that one day, Carolina mentioned that a priest who used to give Mass in Oasis invited a group of students to eat there once, about seven years ago. Carolina was among this group. When they got to the restaurant, the priest held the door open and the rarámuri students walked into the restaurant. I didn't ask Carolina, but I assume the girls were wearing their traditional dresses and blouses. Carolina says that as soon as they walked in, a man in a suit standing by the cash register--I assume it was a manager--said to the group, "no, no, you can't come in here. You have to leave." Then, the priest came to the front of the group and said, "no, they're with me and we're going to eat." Only then did the manager seat the group and serve them.

After she told me this story, Carolina asked me, "why did they treat us like that?" "I don't know," I answered, then added "it's really terrible that they treated you that way, it should never have happened."

What is most shocking about the story is that the manager asked the group to leave the restaurant as soon as they walked in, without asking what they wanted. In Chihuahua, as in many other cities in Mexico and throughout the world, poor children often visit elegant restaurants and approach customers to ask for change or extra food. In Chihuahua, these people are always rarámuri. One of the most awkward experiences I have had in Chihuahua occurred when I visited a Starbucks near my apartment, and as I was sitting at a table drinking coffee and reading a book, a rarámuri mother I know from Oasis and her daughter came in and started making their rounds inside the restaurant, saying "kórima" to every customer seated or ordering coffee at the counter. When they got to me, I smiled and said hi, she smiled and said hi, and didn't say "kórima" to me. We didn't say more; she moved on after saying hi. It is so common to see rarámuri in places like Starbucks and Degás, and I have never seen a manager ask them to leave, but I am sure it happens pretty often. It has to be bad for business, because what customer doesn't feel uncomfortable having a dirty child in tattered clothes approach the table with a serious face and an extended hand? Naturally, restaurant owners and managers try to keep their establishments free of any elements that might discourage customers from coming in, and they view the kórima-seeking rarámuri as one of those elements. It is very, very rare to see a rarámuri enter places that mestizos go for entertainment: restaurants, cafés, shopping malls, movie theaters. For the most part, the rarámuri can't afford to visit these kinds of places, but there's more to it than that. Not every rarámuri in Oasis is extremely poor, and I see some families treat themselves on a pretty regular basis. But there are places that are clearly designated as "mestizo only," and no rarámuri, no matter what their economic status, will enter. The rules are unspoken--segregation is against the law--but racial tensions run deep enough in Chihuahua to create separate spaces for mestizos and rarámuri.

Carolina is not inclined to participate in mestizo politics, and she is not impassioned by the pan-indigenous political movement that started in the South and is trying to reach the North; but she is hurt by stereotypes and unjust treatment like she received in Degás. I like the rarámuri for not being so politically outspoken--they are not a group that typically stages demonstrations or are likely to reach such heights of political passion that they will rebel in a sensational, attention-drawing way (in contrast to other indigenous groups in the South). The rarámuri have often been labeled as passive, lazy, even stupid for their apparent acceptance of bad treatment. But Carolina, like other rarámuri, has her methods for maintaining her dignity as a rarámuri.

She told me she sat at a table with her fellow students and the priest that afternoon and had a lemonade and enchiladas. She had a good time, despite the manager's initial bad treatment. If the waiters were rude, as they were to the indigenous women who visited a restaurant in Polanco, Carolina didn't mention it to me. In the story about the women in Polanco, the indigenous women also seemed to be unaware of the waiter's smirks and exaggerated treatment. The report says they had ice cream, then went into another store to browse. There, a saleswoman asked them if they needed any help as they were looking at a $2,000 purse. "No, thank you; I think it's ugly," the indigenous woman told the saleswoman.

Naming a rarámuri baby

Against my better judgment, I recently adopted two kittens from Oasis. About three weeks ago, I found a little gray kitten left to die outside by a rarámuri family. They said its mother had abandoned it, so they decided to adopt it; but when the kitten got an eye infection, the rarámuri mother refused to have it in the house and ordered it out, she didn't care where. I brought the kitten and began nursing him back to health, feeding him with an eye dropper every three hours since he was only about four weeks old when I found him. He began looking good after just a few feedings and has been stronger ever since.

One week later I ran across a similar situation with a black kitten. Abandoned by his mother, unwanted by any rarámuri family, I figured it was no skin off my back to take him home, nurse him back to health, and find a happy home for him. Of course, after only two days with him I began thinking of him as mine, so now I am keeping both.

I have been struggling to come up with names for these kittens. Friends have tried to help me, but I don't like anything that has been suggested so far. Several people have suggested I give them rarámuri names, but most of the rarámuri use names in Spanish--no rarámuri has been able to give me a name in their language. Finally, I gave Julissa the task of naming the gray one, so that I would only have half the work. "So I'm going to be the godmother?" she asked ("madrina" is godmother in Spanish). I laughed, understanding exactly what she was referring to. In rarámuri culture, parents typically do not name their own babies. They choose godparents, and one of the godparents' responsibilities is to choose a name for their godchild. However, rarámuri babies are not named until they are baptized, which usually occurs (based on what I have seen in Oasis, not what I have read) between months 7 and 12. So it is completely normal for a baby to be carried around for an entire year and not have a name.

Jiovanna has agreed to be the godmother for the black kitten. They have told their mothers, friends, and friends' mothers about our deal, and of course the women think it's odd and hilarious. It has been three weeks and the kittens still do not have names--Julissa and Jiovanna are considering their options very carefully and taking their time to make a decision. The rarámuri mothers are slightly exasperated that the kittens don't have names yet, but I just respond "they can't be named until they have been baptized," to which they laugh. I have heard many chabochis comment on how exasperating it is to meet a baby almost a year old that has not yet been named. Julissa, Jiovanna and I are not at all hurried to name the kittens. It could be weeks before they have names, but that's okay. Another responsibility that godparents have is to give their godchildren gifts, so several times I have teasingly asked the girls what they are going to gift my kittens. They tell me they are making toys for them, which they will give to me in a bunch when they are done.

The kittens

The godmothers

Día del Niño

Día del Niño, or Childrens' Day, falls on April 30th of each year in Mexico. Every year, the Coordinadora Estatal de la Tarahumara and the teachers at the settlement's small elementary school decide on a treat for the rarámuri children. This year, the Coordinadora funded a bus to take the rarámuri children and a few mothers to Aldama, a town thirty minutes away famous for its public swimming pools, a zoo which hosts three tigers and a black panther, and drug traffickers. The teachers contributed 100 pesos each (a little less than $10) to buy meat, potatoes, chile, and tortillas to make a "discada," Chihuahua's version of a cookout using a large iron disk over an open fire rather than a grill to cook the meat. In my eyes, it was a generous gift for each teacher to contribute any amount of money to their students, considering that they are not very well paid and have children of their own to take care of. The school's director was also kind enough to let me come along, so on April 30th I showed at Oasis at 7:30 AM to catch the bus with about 60 schoolchildren and 5 mothers to Aldama.

The bus was crammed with children sitting four to a seat (I carried one in my lap), but the energy was very high. For most of these children, this would be their first trip to a zoo. The Coordinadora and the teachers provided the bus and the food, and they subsidized the zoo entrance tickets, giving them to the rarámuri for 30 pesos (a little less than $3) rather than 65 pesos. Still, only half the rarámuri children had been given money by their parents to enter the zoo. While most people would agree that 30 pesos is an excellent price for a day at the zoo, most of the rarámuri cannot afford to spend even this amount on luxuries. 12 pesos is a bag of beans that feeds a family of about five one meal. Tortillas for the day are another 6 to 12 pesos (which is why most women opt to make them by hand each morning--it saves money). Cheese, meat, and anything which must be refrigerated are rare treats, since these items usually cost more and most of the rarámuri do not own refrigerators. Most rarámuri families earn just enough to give their children the most basic food, and paying 30 pesos on a zoo excursion would have been an irresponsible decision.

When we arrived to Aldama, those children who had paid lined up to go into the zoo. Several rarámuri women asked me if I was going to go, and I decided not to go into the zoo when I learned none of the women were going in. Julissa was very excited to go to the zoo; Jiovanna's mother did not give her money. I felt a strong desire to give Jiovanna 30 pesos to go into the zoo, but I held back because I didn't want to show such obvious favoritism in front of the other kids and mothers. Those of us who didn't enter the zoo were bussed to a forested area with a natural stream. The kids were told that the water was clean and that they could swim if they wanted. Disappointment about not entering the zoo was soon forgotten climbing trees and wading in the stream. Some women and I gathered sticks to make a fire while two others settled down to slice potatoes and onions for the discada.

Once the meat--a combination of chorizo, hot dog, and ground beef--was frying, I decided to accompany one of the teachers to buy tortillas and sodas. We drove through the town looking for a tortillería and along the way I got to see the town. The plaza in the main square with a few trees and the old, small church. The spring wind creating a tornado of dust in the plaza, and pollen drifting through the air. On a windy day in spring you can feel dust in your teeth all day long throughout the Chihuahuan desert. The gray mountains, part of the Sierra Madre Occidental line that turns into the Rockies in the United States, forming a protective wall around the town. The mountains throughout the Chihuahuan desert keep tornadoes from devastating the towns and cities throughout this region. They break up the landscape, adding irregularities that rise too high for any tornado to pass over them. Millions of years ago, these mountains were underwater, part of a vast ocean. If you go hiking today in these mountains or in the open desert between Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua City or between Chihuahua City and Aldama, you can find fossils of seashells that at a glance look like ordinary desert rocks. I used to find them in the desert around my house when I was a little girl, before housing developments filled in the desert, once the ocean, with one and two-story stucco homes with refrigerated air.

Planting and cattle-raising are the main economic activities of the town of Aldama today. Mining caused the town to boom over fifty years ago, until most of the precious metals were extracted from the land and the town's inhabitants had to look for other ways to live. Today, Aldama is infamous throughout the state of Chihuahua for being home to drug traffickers, but only the stereotypical ones: the ones with cowboy boots and hats, and ostentatious silver belt buckles and pick-up trucks. In the capital of the state, they say the richest drug lords dress with more class, buying their polo shirts and Versace sunglasses in the United States. They arrive to the nicest clubs and sometimes close them down for the night to host a private party, but if not, they satisfy themselves with spending at least $1,000 in bottles of liquor. But Aldama is still a traditional farming town, an unsophisticated pueblito. The teacher found a small tortillería in the center of the town, and afterwards, we walked over to a family-owned convenience store to buy several 3L bottles of soda.

When we returned, the children were eagerly awaiting the tortillas so they could eat. There was plenty of food, and the teachers invited me to as many tacos as I wanted. I had two. The combination of meats, potatoes and chile is delicious, but very oily. After we had finished eating, the bus arrived with the second bath of hungry kids just coming from the zoo. They finished off the meat while they told those who had not entered about the two tiger cubs who wrestled in their cage, the peacocks and the way they extend their feathers like beautiful Chinese fans, the playful monkeys and getting sprayed with water while on a kiddie train. Julissa was thrilled with the trip and told her mother all about the animals in rarámuri, stopping every few sentences to make sure I understood and to translate what I didn't understand.

We returned to Oasis by 3 PM, exhausted, full and happy. The Coordinadora had donated several piñatas for the kids, but the teachers decided to break them the next day during recess. Overall, the event was a huge success, although it is still hard to think that half the kids did not get to enjoy the zoo for only 30 pesos.

The traditional discada

Girls enjoying their lunch after a visit to the zoo

The 5th grade class at Oasis Escuela Primaria posing with their teacher on Día del Niño

Children playing in the forested area, crossing a log that lies across a stream

Shy Elena laughing at something her sister said

A stolen baby, and intimidation on Calle Libertad

Carolina, the indigenous governor's sister and a good friend of mine, gave birth to a plump baby girl on Monday of Holy Week, which was one month ago. Carolina is 24 years old (her birthday is actually ten days after mine) and very active in everything that goes on in Oasis: she is an avid participant in the races (betting and sometimes running), an excellent seamstress, an important participant in many rituals, and a spokesperson for Oasis with the Coordinadora Estatal de la Tarahumara, the government agency that addresses all issues related to the rarámuri. When her brother the governor is absent for extended periods, as he was during the four months of winter when he was in the Sierra building a fence to enclose a prominent rancher's property, Carolina takes over many responsibilities. According to rarámuri law, there are many issues which only the governor can address, but during those four months that her brother was absent, Carolina took on the role of governor as fully as rarámuri law permitted her. She knows how to read, speaks better Spanish than most rarámuri, and has a pretty good handle on Mexican customs and law. She is the mother of three daughters, including the newborn, and was living with the father (the rarámuri do not typically get married by law or church; nevertheless, monogamy and having a life-partner are ideals in their culture), until he accused her of getting pregnant by another man and abandoned her. Their split was a hot topic in Oasis for many months. During Semana Santa, her ex was a fariseo that many young women swooned over. After getting to know Carolina, and after watching her ex carry on with many women during Holy Week, I am very sure that her ex is accusing Carolina of becoming pregnant by another man just to have an excuse to leave her. I feel indignant and outraged on Carolina's behalf, and now I only wish she was legally married to him so that she could at least get child support out of him. Without legal binding, Carolina cannot obligate him to take a paternity test and it is easy for her ex to walk out on her and their three daughters.

But after the baby was born, the community mostly forgot about Carolina's and Mauricio's dramatic split and the new baby became the next obsession. In rarámuri society, a baby is often passed around to every woman and child who desires to hold him, with the result that most rarámuri babies are non-fussy and completely accustomed to being cuddled in different arms. When I first started visiting Oasis, this custom astonished me and made me slightly uncomfortable--it was strange to see eight and nine year old girls carrying babies only months old around the settlement. But after a while, I came to understand that learning to care for a baby when a girl is herself a child is a cultural norm, and I think it's also a kind of "training" to prepare young girls to think of themselves as mothers--a very important part of rarámuri female identity. So passing around a newborn baby to be held and cuddled by many friends in the settlement is very common, and I have never seen a baby mishandled even when it is being carried by a child.

When I arrived to Oasis today, two young girls--Erika and Rosalia--were standing in front of Chita's store. I greeted them and asked them what they were doing. "We are waiting for the bus to go downtown," replied Erika, who is 7 years old. "Are you going by yourselves?" I asked. Erika nodded yes. "Your mom gave you permission?" Erika nodded yes again. "What are you going for?" "To buy sandals." Erika stuck a bare foot out from under her skirt. "You don't have any sandals to wear to go downtown, even torn ones?" I asked She nodded no. I shook my head, smiled, and told them to be very careful. Then I went into Chita's store, as I always do when I arrive.

Chita and I chatted for a couple minutes, then I mentioned the girls outside and their plan to go downtown by themselves. "By themselves!" Chita exclaimed. Then, "no, no, they can't go by themselves," as she opened her door and told them they were not to go alone. "I'll go with them," I said, feeling guilty for not having thought of this earlier. Sometimes I don't worry about rarámuri children as I would worry for any other child, because I see that they are so much more self-sufficient and generally given much more independence than other children. Still, they are children and vulnerable like any others, so I should remember to treat them as such and worry about them in the same way.

I went outside and stood with the girls to wait for the bus. Several rarámuri women waved at me from across the street; one of them was Carolina. "Where are you going?" she shouted over to me. "Downtown!" "Didn't you say you were going to invite me when you went?" "Let's go, then! I barely decided to go." "Okay, will you wait for me while I get the baby ready?" "Yes, but hurry!" I yelled in rarámuri and she laughed

This was the first time I ever went on an excursion with Carolina, and I was very happy to have this opportunity. She is friendly and talkative and it is always nice to spend time with her. I always learn about happenings in Oasis when I talk to her, and she is very open about her own life as well. During the bus ride, she started telling me about a rarámuri baby that was kidnapped two days ago from a woman who lives in Oasis. Somehow I had missed this story until today. The woman was outside a Wal-Mart selling candy, her weeks-old baby in her arms, when a mestizo woman approached her and asked to hold the baby. The rarámuri woman allowed it, but became uncomfortable when the woman kept the baby for more than a minute and would say "let me hold her just a little longer" when the mother would ask for her baby to be returned. Then, the mestizo woman said to the mother, "come to my house, I have a lot of baby clothes that I want to give to you." The rarámuri woman felt like she had no choice but to go, since the mestizo woman would not give up the baby. So they got on the bus and went the mestizo woman's house. Once they arrived, the mestizo woman, still holding the baby, opened her front door, stepped inside, and slammed it in the rarámuri woman's face. After knocking on the windows and door for almost an hour, the rarámuri mother was beside herself. She finally walked one block to find a police officer, but when she and the officer returned to the house and he forced the door open, the woman had made off with the baby. Lucky for the rarámuri woman, the police officer took her case seriously and alerted his chief and other officers. The mother had the presence of mind to return to Oasis and tell Chita, who immediately got on the phone and contacted the Coordinadora and every NGO that works with the rarámuri. If there is one great thing to be said about Chita, it is that she knows how to work her contacts and gain support for a cause. Soon, with the effort of so many people and the rarámuri woman's detailed description of the woman, the kidnapper was caught within a day, the baby with her. It turned out she was a prostitute who had plans to sell the baby.

As Carolina was telling me this story, I understood why Chita had warned her so sternly not to let any stranger touch her baby. As we were waiting for the bus, Chita had poked her head out the door specifically to issue this warning. I had thought the warning random and rather strange, but after learning this story, I understood where it came from. Still, I didn't truly grasp the importance of this advice until later that day.

When we got downtown, Carolina opted to carry the baby in her arms rather than in the rebozo on her back. The baby is still so small that her neck needs to be supported when she is held, so Carolina prefers to carry her in her arms to make sure the baby's neck is properly supported. Our first stop was a store to buy the cheap plastic sandals for Erika that most city-dwelling rarámuri women wear. Once we accomplished that errand, we headed for the main cathedral and Calle Libertad, where all the fabric stores are located. We stopped at many stores along the way, and everywhere we stopped, saleswomen of all ages admired Carolina's baby. Most of them were the usual "oohs" and "ahhs" that any newborn gets, but some of the women made strange comments. At one point, Erika was holding the baby while Carolina looked at some baby shoes, and an old lady came up to her and said, "What a beautiful baby! Will you give her to me?" Erika ignored her, but the old lady persisted, and even started stroking the baby's feet. She seemed harmless to me, but I could tell Erika was getting stressed out. And when Carolina noticed what was happening, she raced over and took her baby into her arms. The old lady went away, and Carolina proceeded to scold Erika for allowing the old lady to get so close.

This happened all afternoon. At times, women would stop Carolina in the middle of the street just to coo at the baby. Most did not ask to hold her, but a few did. When this happened, the talkative, outspoken Carolina I know melted away and she became nervous and shy. She never gave any woman permission to hold her baby, and in my opinion, any idiot could have seen in her face and her non-responses that she did not want any stranger holding her baby; but if these women noticed, they ignored Carolina's feelings and took the baby into their arms to cuddle it and coo into her face for a minute or two. After one of these incidents, Carolina said to me, "I'm so worried one of them will take off running with her." "If that happens, I'll chase her down myself," I told her.

Looking back on the day, I should have supported Carolina more and told the women myself that no, they could not hold the baby. After the first time it happened, I could tell Carolina was uncomfortable with so many strange women fussing over her baby, but because none of them struck me as very threatening, I didn't feel alarmed and stayed silent. Still, now that I try to imagine what it would be like to have a baby, I feel certain that I would hate strange people touching and wanting to hold my baby. I don't know why Carolina is afraid to say no to these women--my best guess is that she feels intimidated by the mestizo women. As I mentioned, she turns shy and hardly utters a word when they approach her.

Other than these incidents, we spent a fantastic afternoon downtown. We went to all the fabric stores and discussed patterns, fabrics, and colors. Carolina bought some brown fabric to make little dolls that she sells, and some fabric with dolphins and starfish to make a skirt for herself
(just like any woman I know. She swore she was only going to buy the brown fabric, but she ended up spending more money that she meant to and bought herself something pretty). When we passed by the Cathedral, she told me about the time Pope John Paul II visited Chihuahua and gave Mass at this same Cathedral. Carolina showed me exactly where she stood to see him, right at the entrance of the Cathedral. She took me to a store and showed me music CDs recorded by rarámuri musicians, and told me the name and biography of a rarámuri musician who recorded in New York City (it is always interesting to me when a rarámuri is aware of any place outside Chihuahua and Sonora). She showed me a nice restaurant that a priest had taken her and a group of other children to eat at when she was in grade school.

Another curious incident that occurred while Rosalia was holding the baby and Carolina was inside a fabric store was when a drunk rarámuri man walked right up to Rosalia and repeated something in rarámuri over and over. Rosalia and I were sitting on the steps outside the store, but the man ignored my presence and addressed Rosalia. She huddled over the baby a little and looked away, until I said "come, let's go." Rosalia got up and followed me, and the rarámuri man laughed and sauntered away. I asked Rosalia what he had said and she said, "he wanted to know if I would sell him the baby." When Carolina came out of the store, I thought she would be very upset by this story, but she only laughed and rolled her eyes. My best guess is that she did not feel threatened by this man because he is rarámuri.

We returned to Oasis at 5 PM, and I told Chita the events of the day while Carolina went home to put away her purchases. I told Chita how odd I thought it was that so many people (at least 15) stopped Carolina to admire her baby, and even more strange that so many strangers asked to hold her. Chita's opinino is that most mestizos see an "Indian baby" as a quaint thing, and that they feel confident enough to treat the "Indian mother" with a familiarity that they would never show to a mestizo stranger. She says a big problem among Chihuahuan mestizos is that they patronize and dehumanize the rarámuri --they ask to hold a rarámuri mother's baby just as they would ask to hold a puppy was how she put it. I asked her if it was normal in Chihuahuan culture to approach strangers and ask to hold their babies, and she said that it was absolutely not normal. This is not the first time I have heard Chita talk about this topic--once she told me about a woman who came to Oasis offering to buy children, until a rarámuri told Chita about it and Chita ran the woman out of the settlement. When I asked her why people wanted to buy babies, she listed the reasons I had suspected: illegal adoption rings, child prostitution rings, organ trafficking, and slave labor. Today I got a good feeling for how vulnerable rarámuri children are in this city, to what extent insensitive mestizos can belittle and intimidate a rarámuri mother, and how truly terrifying and dangerous it can feel to be a second class citizen. I asked Chita to encourage Carolina not be scared of saying no to mestizos who want to hold her baby, and when I feel the moment is right, I will also encourage her. And I will never ask to hold a baby ever again, unless I feel certain that the mother trusts me.

Erika and Carolina's baby

Lunch at my house with the rarámuri

The morning that the rarámuri women were supposed to come over for lunch, I debated calling my landlady to let her know that I would be bringing them over. My apartment is a small bungalow in back of a large house. When I first arrived to Chihuahua, I worried that my landlady would put restrictions (such as a curfew, or prohibit me from inviting guests), but after she reassured me that I was welcome to invite any guests I liked over, I opted for this apartment because it feels safe to be behind a large house. I have a private entrance on the side of the house, a large metal gate that leads into a narrow passageway and goes directly to my apartment. The family's private yard is walled in, so I literally do not share space with the family even though I am on their property. Still, the entrance to my apartment is visible from the second story of the large house, and for this reason I wondered if I should just notify my landlady that rarámuri friends were coming over. However, I told myself that I was being paranoid and overly cautious. While the rarámuri and non-rarámuri rarely mix to socialize, I decided not to give too much importance to the social stigma and treated the invitation like it was any other person coming over; I did not mention it to my landlady.

When I arrived at Oasis, I asked Esperanza what time she wanted to come over, and she said at 2 PM, so she could have time to shower and dress her five-year-old daughter, Jiovanna. Julissa and her mother Cuka were also coming, and at the last minute Esperanza's sister Teresa and her two boys also decided to join us. I decided to treat them as fully as I could and pay for their transportation to my apartment, so we went in a taxi. Naturally, the taxi driver was curious to know where I was going with the rarámuri, and I replied that they were coming to my house for lunch. "Oh," he said, and didn't ask more questions.

That morning I had gone to the grocery store to buy bags of frozen corn, ready-made beans since it would take forever to make so many for a large group of people, a packet of hot dogs, a large bottle of coke, and corn tortillas. I decided it was safest to prepare something that they are used to eating, especially since kids can be picky eaters. I planned to slice the hot dogs and fry them in a pan with the corn (a favorite dish with my brother and I, and one which I thought would be palatable to the rarámuri), and serve it with beans and and tortillas. I normally make my own salsa, and it isn't half bad, so I thought I could offer that too. For dessert there was ice cream.

We pulled up in front of the big house, but I had already told the women that my apartment was behind it and that we would enter through the side gate. Still, Julissa and Jiovanna commented on the size of the house. Teresa mentioned that she had been here before to seek alms, called kórima.

We went through the gate and down the narrow passageway and up the stairs to my apartment. The first thing Julissa said when she saw it was "Qué bonito vives, Victoria!" How nice you live, Victoria. It is a comfortable apartment, although it is hardly nice to look at: there are scratches on the peach walls, cracked tiles in the bathroom, water stains on the ceiling. When I was first moving in, my mom found two roaches which she swears are the largest she has ever seen. She was against me moving into this apartment because of its rundown condition, but I decided the safe location was worth putting up with other inconveniences.

The rarámuri filed in and I invited them to sit on the tattered couch. The children wanted to see my bedroom, which I didn't mind in the least, so I invited them in. Julissa noticed my electric blanket and asked what it is; I told her to get into my bed and gave her a demonstration. I invited the women in too, but they were too polite to come into my bedroom. Once I started cooking, the women wanted to help, but I told them to sit down and relax. I was a little nervous cooking in front of them, since they tend to make fun of me for not being as domestic as they are, but I didn't make any mistakes and they complimented the cooking.

Julissa and Jiovanna were overjoyed to see where I live. Julissa openly admired my style of living. She peeked in the refrigerator when I opened it and said "you have so much food!" She saw my high heels in my closet and told me I should wear them when I visit Oasis so that I will look even prettier. She, Jiovanna, and the boys sat down properly at my kitchen table and ate everything they were served. I served the women their plates as well, and we sat on the couch to eat. When we were finished, Cuka tried to wash the dishes but I wouldn't let her. Teresa grabbed the broom and swept up my kitchen despite my protests. Esperanza wiped down the kitchen table. I thanked them for their help, and they thanked me for inviting them.

Next, I brought out my laptop and played a slideshow of the hundreds of pictures I took during Holy Week. I printed many of them and delivered them to the rarámuri, but it's impossible to print all of them, so I took this opportunity to show my guests other photos and videos. We stayed for another hour looking at the pictures, until it was 5 PM and they needed to get going before the sun set. I walked them up the street to the bus stop, then came back home.

The next day I saw my landlady because I had to pay the rent. After I paid her, she said "I noticed some Tarahumara friends came to visit you yesterday." She was obviously curious. "Yes," I said, "I invited them over for lunch. It was a lot of fun." "Yes, some of them are nice people," she replied.

The next day at Oasis, word had spread about my cooking and some other women teased me for not inviting them too. I said the invitation to visit me was open and they could come over to eat anytime they wanted, they just needed to set the date.

Birthday party in Oasis

I have so many stories to catch up on for my blog! Soon I will blog about Semana Santa (Holy Week) and the sewing lessons the rarámuri women are giving me. But in this entry I want to describe a birthday party and an afternoon by a river.

Last week, I mentioned off-hand to Julissa that I would like to have her and her mother over to my house to eat one of these days. Being Julissa, she wanted me to set a date immediately, so after talking to her mother (Cuka) we decided that tomorrow would be the day. I also invited Esperanza and her daughter Giovana, who is one of the little girls that constantly follows me around. The little girls have been excited about this event for days, and I get the feeling the mothers are very curious not only to see where I live, but to see how I cook (ever since I mentioned I didn't know how to make tortillas by hand, the women think I can't cook anything!)

Another important event that the little girls have been looking forward to is Giovana's 6th birthday, which was today. Initially the families were supposed to come to my house to eat today, but Esperanza changed the date because of Giovana's birthday. This surprised me a little, since celebrating birthdays is a Western custom. I had even heard Esperanza mention she wanted to buy a cake for Giovana, and I said that I would bring a little one too.

So I showed up at Oasis this afternoon with a chocolate cake that I picked up at Soriana. I said "Happy Birthday" to Giovana and taught her and Julissa the song. The women were sewing outside their houses, as usual, so I sat down with them to work. Giovana mentioned that her mom had also bought a cake, as planned, and I figured cake would be passed around to friends at some point that afternoon. I didn't know whether to expect candles and singing; I didn't know to what extent Esperanza and the rest of the community had adopted this Western tradition.

I was sitting chatting with Carolina, who just had a baby two weeks ago, when Giovana suddenly comes out of her house and says "Victoria, my mom says to come inside if you want to." I stood up and obeyed as quickly as I have ever obeyed anyone. I know I am in good standing in Oasis, but nevertheless, I have only been invited to enter a home once before. The homes in Oasis are small (two rooms) and usually overcrowded (8 to 10 people living in each home), and I think for this reason the rarámuri rarely invite people inside. I hear this is not the case in the Sierra; there, the rarámuri invite any passer-by to come inside.

I noticed long ago that Esperanza is a woman who likes to run her life and her home in a very particular way. Giovana is trained to ask permission before she goes anywhere, unlike any other child I know in Oasis. Esperanza never participates in drinking parties, she knows how to read and write, and is a very diligent seamstress, which brings her a steady income. Her husband has a steady job in construction, does not have serious alcohol problems, and they only have two children. All of these factors contribute in a positive way to their economic standing, which is evident in the new material Esperanza is able to afford, the fact that they own a truck, and the 5 peso allowance Giovana receives every day. Upon entering their home, I gained more insights into their economic standing and Esperanza's personality. First of all, they own a small refrigerator, which I know from asking around most families do not own. They have a gas stove and a microwave, a kitchen table with four matching chairs, and pink walls. Since most of the other homes are so overcrowded, families tend to use both of their house's rooms to sleep in, which means that most families do not have space to have an actual kitchen set-up. People have to cook by their beds and either eat standing up, sitting on the floor, or sitting in bed. I get the feeling Esperanza is a very careful planner (a "control freak," my mom would say). She definitely lives differently than 98% of rarámuri families in Oasis, and none of her commodities could have been gained without careful planning.

She cooked enough food for at least ten guests. This is amazing, because even though this family is better off than most, they are still classified as "poor" and certainly have to limit their spending carefully. Lunch was traditional Mexican rice, delicious beans with hot dog, corn tortillas, and coke. Esperanza even went out of her way to buy paper plates, cups, and utensils, when she could have just as easily told each guest to bring their own plate from home, which is what is always done for the communal parties. I definitely received some special treatment--I was invited to sit at the table, while most of the other guests sat on the floor. Esperanza was busy serving the children, so she said to me "serve yourself, have as much as you want." I was so honored to have been invited to enter the house, I almost forgot that I got to eat too!

After lunch, Esperanza took out the two cakes and a candle in the shape of 6 out. Her husband came home from work then. He took out his guitar, started strumming it, and asked the children "who knows how to sing Las Mañanitas," the traditional Mexican "happy birthday" song. Giovana was sitting at the table, her birthday cake with a lit candle, just like most other children in the world--and nobody knew how to sing Las Mañanitas. I know it, but I didn't want to sing by myself, and it would not have been easy for the children to learn quickly, so I suggested we sing "Happy Birthday" in English, since it is easy to learn and Julissa already knew it. We did that, Giovana blew out her candle, and Esperanza passed out slices of cake. I had a fabulous time, and it was also fascinating to observe an indigenous family carefully following this Western ritual, and then not knowing the words to the traditional Mexican birthday song. It is the song that any Mexican child learns very early on, just like American children learn to sing "Happy Birthday." But even as these rarámuri children grow up in the city, and are much more Westernized than their relatives who still live in the Sierra, they are still not fully assimilated--far from it. It is always interesting to note what aspects of Western culture the city-dwelling rarámuri accept and what they reject, and what they simply don't know because they don't have access to it.

The party didn't end there. Esperanza surprised and thrilled me further when she invited me to go with her family and some friends to a private nature reserve just outside the city. I of course accepted the invitation immediately. I ran to the store to buy some snacks to share, then piled into the back of the family's pick-up along with the children and other women. One of the women was Esperanza's mother, who is elderly but agile (I had more trouble getting into the back of the pick-up than she did!), speaks no Spanish, and always wears green Mardi-gras beads along with her traditional rarámuri dress. I made her laugh trying to speak rarámuri with her, and made everyone laugh when I accidentally confused the words for potato and man ("reloy" and "rejoy").

The park was small but fantastic. We were the only ones there that afternoon. There is a natural stream that runs through it, and some small swimming pools for children. Esperanza and her husband had bought meat and set about making a "discada," a combination of meat, potatoes and vegetables cooked on an iron disk set over an open fire. I waded in the river, then watched the kids swim while Esperanza cooked, and when the food was ready, they treated me to dinner. Nothing especially interesting happened--just the very fact that I was enjoying a cookout in a park with a rarámuri family was very special. I often wonder what they think of me, and if they understand what I am doing in Oasis every day. They are used to "antropólogos" now, but even so, I often wonder what they make of this kind of "work," if they even consider it legitimate work.

Tomorrow I am having them over for lunch. While we were eating in Esperanza's house today, I said "your cooking is so delicious, I wonder what you will think of mine." She said "we'll see," and laughed. Now I am nervous!! I feel that my reputation as a woman in the eyes of the rarámuri women lies in this meal tomorrow. I want to cook something that requires actual skill, but I also don't want to make something that is too foreign and they might not enjoy. For example, I like to eat grilled chicken and vegetables, and rarely tortillas, but I know better than to not have tortillas present on a Mexican table. I think the menu will be the following: beans (which I have to set early tomorrow), corn with slices of hot dog and a little onion, Mexican rice, and tortillas. This seems like it would be an acceptable menu in their eyes. I hope I can pull it off to their liking!