Tonight brought the most startling experience I’ve had so far in México. About a week and a half ago the news arrived in Ziquítaro that one of the town’s residents had died in Los Angeles. The following Sunday at mass one of my after-school students, Yazmin, told me that the man who died was the father of another girl who also comes to my class. Alejandra is thirteen years old, a very sweet person with a warm smile. She and her several siblings, including a baby brother, lost their father as a result of uncertain circumstances.
This evening I was sitting with a group of students in the plaza when the announcement came over the town’s loudspeaker that Alejandra’s father’s body was to arrive in Ziquítaro tomorrow morning, and that the family would be keeping vigil tonight. Announcements are a frequent occurrence as Ziquítaro lacks traditional means for broadcasting information; normally they announce school closures or that vegetables or tacos are for sale in the plaza. When the grim news came of the impending arrival of this man’s body, the plaza went silent. The rowdy junior high-ers, mothers and their toddlers, and boisterous old men were silent as friends and community members were invited to come and pay their respects at the home of the man who passed away. This news and its manner of transmission reminded me again how distant from home I am, an emotion that would become more profound as the night went on. The divulgence of a family’s most private and heartbreaking details by way of a booming voice over the hillsides demonstrates the dynamic of a community where all members are members of intimate network, which can itself be likened to a single large family.
I ran into Alejandra earlier today, the first time I had seen her since we heard about her father. I told her I would visit her this weekend, but when I heard the announcement I knew I should also be there tonight to support her.
Alejandra lives up one of Ziquítaro’s many hills, in a part of the rancho I don’t usually visit, as we live near the plaza and mostly stick to the flat, central areas between the church and the schools. Two of my junior high students offered to go with me and Rachel to Alejandra’s house as we did not know the way. I was quite nervous as I never know what to say when a friend loses a loved one, and now I was operating in another language and culture, of whose customs I was not entirely sure. We climbed up the steep dirt road, past family cornfields, stepping carefully around large rocks and what horses has left behind. Further up, the street was paved and alive with the multigenerational commotion seen everywhere in town. Fortunately we came across my student Yazmin along the way and she brought us to Alejandra’s house.
We passed anxiously through the gate and were greeted by Alejandra. A large gathering of people was seated in the courtyard and along the walkway leading to the front gate. Nearly all were female, except for small children. Rachel and I sat with Alejandra and Yazmin, facing the small kitchen. At this point it has to be said that the house Rachel and I live in is quite elegant compared to many of the houses in town. We are fortunate to have regular toilets and other luxuries that don’t exist in most of the other houses. When I visited Alejandra’s house, I realized I had forgotten in a way how different Ziquítaro is from the comfortable life I am accustomed to, even as I live here: at her home, both the kitchen and bathroom where separate buildings from the rest of the house. The house is adobe. Electricity is improvised by wires strewn about and bare bulbs. When confronted with the humble reality of the family’s daily life I could empathize with the extremes (i.e. leaving for the U.S.) Alejandra’s father had taken to provide for their basic needs. I wondered what the family could do to cope now that he is gone.
A sister of Alejandra’s was sitting at the kitchen table with another relative. I don’t think I will ever forget the expression on the girl’s face: one of absolute despair and helplessness. Can you imagine? Apart from the great loss of someone so dear to them, we can assume this family has lost its primary, if not only, means of financial support.
Later, Alejandra took us inside the main house to see the portrait of her father. A room was dedicated to a small photograph, surrounded by large, beautiful floral arrangements. Surrounding this display was a group of women, as many as would fit in the small space, sitting quietly with their sorrow. Ziquítaro had clearly responded to the announcement; this was obvious by the rows of mourning woman overflowing out of the living room and into the hallway, and the shortage of chairs outside. People often say of the community, “We’re all family.” This felt to me just like a family gathering.
I wish Alejandra and her family the very best of fortune to carry them through this difficult time.
November Update: I see Alejandra from time to time and I am pleased to report she is a very strong person and is always in good spirits. She is there to pick up her siblings at the kindergarten each day. They are lucky to have such a wonderful big sister.
This evening I was sitting with a group of students in the plaza when the announcement came over the town’s loudspeaker that Alejandra’s father’s body was to arrive in Ziquítaro tomorrow morning, and that the family would be keeping vigil tonight. Announcements are a frequent occurrence as Ziquítaro lacks traditional means for broadcasting information; normally they announce school closures or that vegetables or tacos are for sale in the plaza. When the grim news came of the impending arrival of this man’s body, the plaza went silent. The rowdy junior high-ers, mothers and their toddlers, and boisterous old men were silent as friends and community members were invited to come and pay their respects at the home of the man who passed away. This news and its manner of transmission reminded me again how distant from home I am, an emotion that would become more profound as the night went on. The divulgence of a family’s most private and heartbreaking details by way of a booming voice over the hillsides demonstrates the dynamic of a community where all members are members of intimate network, which can itself be likened to a single large family.
I ran into Alejandra earlier today, the first time I had seen her since we heard about her father. I told her I would visit her this weekend, but when I heard the announcement I knew I should also be there tonight to support her.
Alejandra lives up one of Ziquítaro’s many hills, in a part of the rancho I don’t usually visit, as we live near the plaza and mostly stick to the flat, central areas between the church and the schools. Two of my junior high students offered to go with me and Rachel to Alejandra’s house as we did not know the way. I was quite nervous as I never know what to say when a friend loses a loved one, and now I was operating in another language and culture, of whose customs I was not entirely sure. We climbed up the steep dirt road, past family cornfields, stepping carefully around large rocks and what horses has left behind. Further up, the street was paved and alive with the multigenerational commotion seen everywhere in town. Fortunately we came across my student Yazmin along the way and she brought us to Alejandra’s house.
We passed anxiously through the gate and were greeted by Alejandra. A large gathering of people was seated in the courtyard and along the walkway leading to the front gate. Nearly all were female, except for small children. Rachel and I sat with Alejandra and Yazmin, facing the small kitchen. At this point it has to be said that the house Rachel and I live in is quite elegant compared to many of the houses in town. We are fortunate to have regular toilets and other luxuries that don’t exist in most of the other houses. When I visited Alejandra’s house, I realized I had forgotten in a way how different Ziquítaro is from the comfortable life I am accustomed to, even as I live here: at her home, both the kitchen and bathroom where separate buildings from the rest of the house. The house is adobe. Electricity is improvised by wires strewn about and bare bulbs. When confronted with the humble reality of the family’s daily life I could empathize with the extremes (i.e. leaving for the U.S.) Alejandra’s father had taken to provide for their basic needs. I wondered what the family could do to cope now that he is gone.
A sister of Alejandra’s was sitting at the kitchen table with another relative. I don’t think I will ever forget the expression on the girl’s face: one of absolute despair and helplessness. Can you imagine? Apart from the great loss of someone so dear to them, we can assume this family has lost its primary, if not only, means of financial support.
Later, Alejandra took us inside the main house to see the portrait of her father. A room was dedicated to a small photograph, surrounded by large, beautiful floral arrangements. Surrounding this display was a group of women, as many as would fit in the small space, sitting quietly with their sorrow. Ziquítaro had clearly responded to the announcement; this was obvious by the rows of mourning woman overflowing out of the living room and into the hallway, and the shortage of chairs outside. People often say of the community, “We’re all family.” This felt to me just like a family gathering.
I wish Alejandra and her family the very best of fortune to carry them through this difficult time.
November Update: I see Alejandra from time to time and I am pleased to report she is a very strong person and is always in good spirits. She is there to pick up her siblings at the kindergarten each day. They are lucky to have such a wonderful big sister.
