For some strange reason, probably family obligation or something, I was invited to the wedding… and to the bridal shower… and the bachelorette party. I didn’t go to the pre-wedding events, and I had decided that I wasn’t going to go to the wedding either. I had already decided. But I went anyway.

What can I say? I’m a jellyfish.

I didn’t go to the wedding for the bride or the groom, neither of whom I care about in the slightest. (Was that harsh?) I went to the wedding because my broth-in-law was giving away the bride.

And so I went to the wedding.

And now I have my regular several posts coming your way about the different things I noticed about the experience. Because, as you may have imagined, nothing with my family is truly ordinary, not even a trip to a wedding.

But maybe that’s just my opinion.

8 AM — breakfast was a crunchy peanut butter sandwich on white bread accompanied by hot tea.

10 AM — no midmorning snack today. I didn’t pack anything.

11:30 AM — lunch was a lot of food at Maggiano’s for a luncheon.

3 PM — no midafternoon snack today. I didn’t pack anything.

7 PM — I had dinner at the House of Pies. It’s the second time this week.

Dinner was an event, a get-together with my mother, my brother and his new girlfriend. Have I mentioned that I don’t really know if I like her yet?

{{Written on my iPhone}}

8 AM — breakfast was one chicken tamal with green Tabasco sauce and hot tea.

10 AM — midmorning snack was a banana. A very yummy banana.

12:30 PM — lunch was the rest of the leftover chicken tamales. Three of them, I think. Also with green Tabasco sauce and a large bottle of water.

3 PM — midafternoon snack was a Granny Smith apple, beautiful and tart.

8 PM — dinner was homemade chicken in peanut sauce. I made enough for several days, ate some today and put the rest in the freezer.

{{Written on my iPhone}}

7:30 AM — half a peanut butter sandwich and hot tea.

Midmorning snack — I didn’t have anything for midmorning snack.

11:30 AM — lunch wad a visit to a salad bar, which means a very bad salad… plus bread.

7 PM — Dinner was leftovers from the dinner at my sister’s a few days ago. Basically, chicken and beef kabobs with A1 sauce.

{{Written on my iPhone}}

My mother turned to me today and told me that we really needed to go see a neighbor today, since we were leaving tomorrow. “Why?” I asked. “Her sister died,” she answered. “That was the funeral that was held yesterday. We need to go give her the pesame,” she added.

I paused for a moment. The last thing I wanted to do was go give condolences to someone. It sounds really cold, I know, but I just could not deal with someone else’s grief on top of everything else. And I should have been willing to go, since the woman we’d need to visit was the mother of a schoolmate. I’d literally been in the same homeroom with her son for five years.

“Well, since we had our own deaths, can’t we get away with not going?” I asked my mother. “She didn’t come and give us pesame either,” I offered.

My mother looked dumbfounded for a moment. I don’t think she’d realized until that moment that, really, people were supposed to be coming by and offering us condolences on our losses. Despite everything, it’s the way things are supposed to be done. And no one has.

“You’re right,” she said. But there was a look on her face I did not like, some strange expression I didn’t like seeing.

“But I’ll go with you, if you really think we ought to go,” I hastened to add, wanting to wipe that expression off her face.

“No, no,” she responded. “You’re right, we won’t go.”

And I felt like a heel.

We arrived here on Sunday. My uncles were killed Sunday evening. We found out on Monday. The first of the two funerals was held today. The next one is expected to be held day after tomorrow.

Under the best of circumstances a trip to Mexico is stressful for me. I end up spending money I hadn’t saved for, using time I wanted for something else, and wasting days as a chauffeur for two women who are not always clear on what they want to do. The hassle of getting all the proper documentation, the physical act of driving for nine hours with back problems and a mild case of carpal tunnel syndrome, and the reality that I’m going to be bored senseless all add to the experience. I don’t actually like making the trip, though I make the best of it once I’m here.

This trip has been especially stressful. I hadn’t realized just how dangerous the situation has become in this area. And, of course, I couldn’t anticipate the deaths of my uncles.

My mother is scared — seriously and intensely scared. She’s canceled all the errands that would require that we drive to another town. She pushed up our departure date by two days. She insists that we leave at 10 am instead of 8 am because she thinks the later time will be safer. And she’s been hard at work trying to convince my grandmother to go back with us.

Her brothers have been calling from the US, giving her updates of information they’ve received from our cousins (who have not been calling us with information). They keep giving her tidbits gleaned from conversations we haven’t been involved in, telling her when the funeral will be held, where my aunt is going after the funeral, etc., etc., etc. Things we’re hearing second hand, mostly.

One of the bits of information my mother received direct from the source was from her youngest sister, who is just a year older than I am. She has planned to drive down here for Easter break with her husband and their kids. They were supposed to take my grandmother back with them to spend a few months. Now, because of everything that’s happened, she’s canceled her trip. And so my mother has been trying to convince my grandmother to go back to Houston with us, so her little sister can pick her up from there instead.

It was early this morning that my mother finally got my grandmother to agree to go back with us. And we’re leaving tomorrow.

I may write a post after the drive home. I may not. But the funeral was today, and we didn’t go. Instead we packed up our things and prepared to close up my grandmother’s house for a few months. And I know that I’m going to hesitate, in a few months, when it’s time to come back.

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I have this belief that I could be dropped into the middle of a Mexican town, blindfolded and without being told where I am, and I’d know as soon as I looked at the houses. But that’s mostly based on my experiences on the architecture of small towns in northern Mexico, specifically Tamaulipas and Nuevo Leon.

Brightly-colored concrete houses line small streets, without any thought for parking or sidewalks. The homes themselves are right on the street, with patios and backyards gated off. There are side porches and back porches, but that’s not the norm. It’s a very rare home you’ll find with a front yard, a front porch or a space to park your cars. These are all modern features, and especially features found in more elaborate homes. Homes that have been here for more than the last thirty years (when the front porches began to appear) are square structures with a minimal amount of comfort and a lot of land in the back.

From the front porch on my parents home (yes, we have a front porch) I see a blue and green house, a creamy orange home with bright orange trim, a pink house with burgundy trim, and a cream-colored house with green trim. The sea of colors is one of the first things I notice and enjoy upon getting here.

The neighbors across the street live in a two-room square structure without even a gate of any kind. That house is a concrete gray. Next to them is a more elaborate and newer house (I think 35 or 40 years) with a side porch, several bedrooms, and pretty trims on the windows and off the roof. Next to that is a very modern two-story house with a front porch, a designated parking spot, and lots of lighting. I think that house is less than 25 years old.

My parents built this house @ 30 years ago. It’s a two-story, three-bedroom, one and a half bath house made of concrete and tile. The floors are marble (yes, they stain very easily), the cabinets and closets in the kitchen and bedrooms are custom-made wood, and we have a family room and a living room/dining room. (I should point out that the idea of closets is also a very new concept. Most of the older homes don’t have them; you need dressers and furniture to store your clothes.)

My parents saved every penny my Dad made for many years to afford this house. I was very young but remember that there was no such thing as McDonald’s, extra clothes, or trips to the movies. Sacrifices were made to make this house a reality. My mother and father were supposed to retire to this house, but my Dad passed away very young (@ 5 years ago) and my mother is nowhere near ready to settle into retirement living.

And now I wonder if any of us will feel safe with here living here, if things continue the way they are.

Still, every time we come to visit my grandmother, my mother has some improvement made to this house. This week she’s having the bathrooms worked on (there was a leak or something) and the yard cleaned up (two big palm trees have been removed, she says, before they get too big). Last time we were here she had the upstairs half-bath finished (though the room and the basics were there, it needed work). Over the years she’s had the gate replaced with a sturdier concrete one, the house painted inside and out, additional lights added outside, a back door closed off, etc., etc., etc.

We have friends here in town who pay the light, water and phone bills on our behalf (with money we send) so everything is working when we come down. She wants to replace the gas heater and stove with electric ones, and I’m urging her to look into building a downstairs bedroom as well as pricing central heating/AC (before she moves here on a semi-permanent basis).

For me and my sisters, this is a vacation home (I guess). Or just plain home, maybe. It’s the place we grew up, for the most part. Where we talk about in the “do you remember?” moments. The place where we can find or trace our family roots, keep in touch with old friends, and ground ourselves in the things that helped make us who we are.

I guess that is home.

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I know that I’ve focused a lot on the bad, on the fear, on the negatives about this trip to Mexico. And, yes, a reasonable person would say that that’s a reasonable response considering what I’ve been bombarded with in the last few days. It’s a true and accurate account of the situation, but it’s not a balanced view of the trip as a whole.

In my posts about the trip I’ve included some about the violence, and the loss in my family, and some about my personal history with this town, with this country, and the culture here. I’ve tried to explain why I would make the drive into a place that news reports tell me isn’t safe (and, yes, Grandma being here is the major part in that). And I’ve tried to convey why it pains me so to see the situation deteriorating the way it is.

But in all of that I’ve neglected to describe the ordinary lives that continue in the midst of all this chaos, the everyday chores and tasks and events that make up a great portion of reality for the people who live here. The things that have changed and the things that have stayed the same, regardless of the violence and the mayhem that’s going on outside the borders of this town.

There’s a preparatoria in town now, a high school that teaches computer science. Many years ago, when I lived here, to attend high school you had to bus two towns over. The first year I attended that school only six girls and twelve boys from this town made the trip every day to go to preparatoria. It goes without saying that these kids were from the wealthier families in town. And, in this town, wealth was a relative term. It simply meant we all came from families where we didn’t go without much, and we weren’t required to find jobs at an early age to help the family stay afloat. It meant that just a few had the option of going further in educational goals, of making it to the university. Now there’s a high school in town, a school that has dozens and dozens of teens attend every day. I don’t know if this means that more of the local students are making it to the city to go to the university, but I do know it’s giving them more options than before.

Of course, the children here are in session this week. They will have the week of Easter off, which is still a few weeks away. So every day I’ve seen them go to school and go home, dresses in their uniforms (or not, for the older kids), with their backpacks and bookbags. Their animated chatter is a relentless and enduring symphony of voices as school lets out and they scatter to all corners of the town, most of them walking. And my mother and grandmother pointed out the neighborhood children, telling me whose children they were and, sometimes, how we were related.

There’s a library in town now, too. I can’t recall any of the towns, close or otherwise, that boasted a municipal library when I lived here. Yes, it’s been a few decades, but the closest we got to a library was the one in the preparatoria we attended. Although I haven’t made it into the library yet, the sign outside says “modulo de servicios digitales” which leads me to believe they have computers with Internet access as well. But I’m looking forward to a future visit to satisfy my curiosity on that.

There are posters all over town about a big dance in a nearby town. I recognize the name of the headlining conjunto, which is saying something since I don’t follow that kind of music any more. I’m sad because I know that most of the local girls won’t be able to go to the dance, even if they do have their own cars. Parents aren’t going to let them drive to another town at night, not with the way things are. But then, my parents rarely let me drive to another town to go to a dance, even way back then and things were much safer. And I should point out that the nearest town is just 12KM away, just a long walk really. But I only ever remember getting permission to drive there for a dance one year, for a Christmas dance. And that’s because I was one of several cars going in convoy.

There’s still a lack of urgency in most of the transactions here. The handyman who says he’ll finish this project today may still be working on it two days from now because the hardware store closed early or didn’t open at all. The offices at the municipal register may be closed even though they’re supposed to be open because the clerk frequently takes the day to go to the city with her mother. Restaurants don’t open because the owners are simply doing other things. Stores are closed during the hottest part of the day because, well, it’s hot. There’s always a “pero,” a reason why something has been delayed or needs an extra step or costs more than you were quoted or is just going to take longer or be more involved. And it’s just a way of life.

My grandmother’s everyday life is made possible by the employment of several women who either spend the night with her, wash her clothes and clean her house, and do anything else she needs. One of them makes her living by being a helper to elderly women in town. The truth is that there are a lot of older residents who are living alone, who can’t really fend for themselves. The town looks out for them, providing a hot meal at lunch every day and a small allowance every month. I’m not really sure where the monies for these things comes from (local, state or federal funds), but it’s helped a lot of the elderly survive. My grandmother is lucky that she has my grandfather’s pension as well. It’s not a lot, but here it’s just enough to provide her with a decent living.

The daughter of one of the women who aids my grandmother is 14 and planning her quinceanera. One afternoon I listened to my mother draw out all the plans for the celebration, to be held in her home next month. My mother was especially interested since my sister is planning my niece’s for next year. Of course, my niece’s will be the full blown celebration at a hall with damas and a choreographed dance, etc., etc., etc. This girl is having a very simple “do” at home, with a pretty dress, friends and family, and little else.

Just a few blocks from my grandmother’s house is the river, a newly-discovered tourist attraction. The river itself has been there forever; I remember going down and swimming there (in shorts and a tee shirt) when I was younger. During dryer years, the river would shrink considerably, but that hasn’t been a problem for quite a few years. The interesting thing is that that river, and the lake just outside of town, have become a tourist attraction for students from the city over the past few years. At first it was just a few friends invited by local kids coming home for the holidays. It’s now very common for groups of university students to come down over Easter break and camp out, swim and barbecue, and just mingle with the people who also trek down here from the US at the same time. I’ve been very entertained when doing online searches on social networking sites and seeing the photos posted about these trips. This year the municipality is building proper bathrooms on the side of the river; I’m told they’re going to have showers too. I wonder it these will be available and maintained year-round or if they’re just for Easter break.

Owners of local businesses have wondered if they should expect tourism this year. Not many people drove here for Spring Break, at least not as many as last year. They are wondering if the bad news coming out of this area is going to keep the kids away as well.

And, I guess, time will tell what changes we will see this year, for better or for worse.

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In the two days since we first heard about what happened to my uncles, we’ve gotten a lot of different stories. Even from my cousins we’ve heard different accounts about what happened.

What we have had confirmed is that both uncles were tortured and killed, though the details on how and why are still sketchy. My aunt was in the house and was locked in another room. She was told that if she left that room she would be killed. She hid in a closet, she said, to try and stop the sounds she heard from the other rooms. The sounds of her husband being killed.

In the early hours of the next morning, after not hearing anything for a long while, she finally decided to chance leaving. She crawled out a window… and saw two police officers just outside her home (what they were doing there is still not clear). They detained her and let her call her sons. She was not allowed back into the house.

One cousin, the second oldest son, went to claim the bodies even though he had been advised that it would not be safe for any of them (him and his brothers) to go there. None of his brothers went with him, they were all too scared (and rightly so). He claimed the bodies without incident.

While phone calls have been going back and forth, finding out about what happens next, what they’re going to do, we’re seeing truckloads of Mexican soldiers patrolling the highways (with helicopters making the rounds overhead). Stories are being shared from house to house, becoming more gruesome and fantastic with each retelling, making people more afraid. And the news about deaths in neighboring towns comes in daily.

My mother says that the sight of the soldiers makes her less afraid, that their presence is a good thing. Maybe she’s right. But I do know that when they drive into town, suddenly the plaza empties out, the raspa place doesn’t have any customers, and even the church closes its doors.

The empty streets add to the surreal feeling.

The funeral is tomorrow, in Texas. The bodies have been taken to the US for a proper burial, I’m told. My cousins will all be there. We will not.

We made the decision not to make the trip for two reasons: we don’t know what happened (and whether the funeral will be safe), and we don’t want to make the trip over open highways in Tamaulipas until it’s time to leave.

I will give my deepest sympathies to my cousins, but I am not brave enough (or foolhardy enough) to make the trip. Because I know that this reaches into Texas, too.

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This new story reminds us that simply relocating these kids a few miles, even with a federally-protected border in between, doesn’t really make them safe.

[snip]

When black SUVs trail school buses around here, no one dismisses it as routine traffic. And when three tough-looking Mexican men pace around the high school gym during a basketball game, no one assumes they’re just fans.

Fear has settled over this border town of 1,700, about 50 miles southeast of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, epicenter of that country’s bloody drug war. Mexican families fleeing the violence have moved here or just sent their children, and authorities and residents say gangsters have followed them across the Rio Grande to apply terrifying, though so far subtle, intimidation.

The message: We know where you are.

[snip]

Scary. And I’m wondering how bad it’s going to get on this side of the border, too.

For me, the trip to Mexico is a trip home. My parents wanted bilingual children, wanted to have us grow up in a place where we could go outside without fear, and so we spent several years living in Mexico. In fact, we spent seven or eight years living in Mexico.

This means that my first language is English, that I first went to schools in the US, then moved to Mexico where I had to learn Spanish and acclimate to the culture here. I moved to a town of @ 1000 people after living in Houston, just off Wayside (what Ward is that?).

I am an American. My first loyalty is to the US. My first priority is my country, with my laws and my security. But I’d be lying if I said that I don’t feel a connection to Mexico.

So, I used to live here. I lived here from the year I turned 10 to the year I turned 17, all through junior high and high school. I barely spoke Spanish when we moved here, and before that I’d never spent more than a week here at a time.

As I mentioned, we moved here because my parents wanted bilingual children, and wanted us to live some place safe where we could go outside and play. At that time we lived in Houston, just off Wayside. Even then it was not a nice neighborhood. My parents had been building a house in Mexico with this vague idea of moving us down here. The year when a little girl my own age was assaulted on her way home from the same school I attended, they made the decision that “someday” needed to be soon. That summer we moved down here.

What I’m saying is that the sight of Mexican troops on the side of the highway isn’t new to me. The knowledge that Mexican officials are more ruthless in their interpretation of the law is not news to me. Living with the knowledge of people being picked up for illegal activities is not new to me. I lived here long enough to see the bitter reality of a country where justice and legality is a concept that’s becoming more real every day.

However, the fear my grandmother’s neighbors are showing is new. The hushed tones and nervous glances before talking about what’s going on is new. The absolute despair the locals are showing about the relentlessness of the situation is new.

To me, this town is home. I can trace my family back to my great-grandparents. I can tell you where they lived, where my grandparents and their siblings lived, and where the families live now. Most of them are gone, like me, living in the US and coming home for the holidays (though not as frequently as they used to). But we all make it back sometime, over the holidays every few years, when the kids are just about to be too grown up to want to make another road trip with the parents, or just when nostalgia hits.

This is my home. And I’m adding my name to the list of people who are scared to be here.

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