When I decided to spend my semester abroad in Chilangolandia, I did so on a last-minute, "do it before you change your mind" kind of whim. The daily grind- class, clubs, work, class, clubs, work- was bringing me down and the idea of having to do it all over again the following semester was painfully unbearable. I dreamt of getting away from it all in Mexico's Distrito Federal, and envisioned myself eating authentic Mexican, catching live-performances by near and dear to my heart artists, and rummaging through flea markets for limitless supplies of thriftscores.
To my surprise, my family was less than thrilled with my decision, wondering why I hadn't decided on usual suspects Madrid or London, and worried about my safety in the 20 million plus megapolis that is Mexico City, the second largest urban area in the world after Tokyo. While unable to change my mind, my family did succeed in equating the city's green Volkswagen Bug taxis (or bochitos) with death and made me swear that I would never let on to a stranger that I was a gabacha from el otro lado. Thus, the first time I explored the streets of D.F. on my own, I pretty much had a heart attack and lasted only a couple of minutes before hailing a cab off the street. Inside the cab, and in my clumsy, self-conscious, and out of practice Spanish I asked the cab driver to take me to the closest thing resembling home, Starbucks (tsk, tsk, I know). "¿Que? ¿Que dijiste?," wondered the puzzled driver. "Si, Starbucks...tu sabes, ese lugar donde venden café y el logo es de una señora," I bumbled. "AAAAAH," he replied. "Te refieres a ESTAR-BUUUUUKKKS." Exactly.
Right then and there I realized that the ensuing five months would be all about adapting to my new home and that I would have to start routines and friendships from scratch. Especially in the beginning, I missed everything that was familiar, friends, and family. The greatest producer of discomfort was differences in the "little things", really forms and practices of doing things. Produce, for instance, not only had to be washed, but soaked in water mixed with sanitizing drops for a good 10 minutes before being consumed and tap water, on the other hand, had to be similarly sanitized. At my new school, La Universidad Iberoamericana, all classes began anywhere between a quarter to half an hour after the scheduled start-time and cigarette smoking was ubiquitous; depending on the professor, the notion of having a cigarette in class with the ‘profe’ was definitely a possibility.
Sooner than later though, 'culture shock' subsided and I began to embrace my new surroundings. I fell in love with my middle-class neighborhood, La Roma, and with el Centro Historico. The surrealness of every-day occurrences was dizzying. I would wonder if laying out on the beach in Acapulco, soaking up the heat and sipping on drinks during the middle of February was for real; if getting my hair braided by street kids in the middle of El Zocalo while next to me a friend got her eyebrow pierced was really happening. On a given Saturday I could be sitting in a packed Lucha Libre venue screaming “Cuuuulerrroooooo” and other lewd remarks at grown men in spandex or bopping up and down at a thrash/folk/gypsy punk show , in an abandoned building near once trendy Zona Rosa. Up until my last day in Mexico City (the day that friends and I serendipitously discovered a place where you could transcribe your dreams and fantasies, "El Archivo General de Sueños y Utopias"), just about every day in Mexico City was a confirmation of Andre Breton’s words, "Mexico tiende a ser el lugar surrealista por excelencia."
At the same time that Mexico City is fiercely progressive (its indie music scene is a hipster's delight and there are tons of venues, museums, galleries, and events chidos to hit up), it is still a city in development, with
At la Ibero, the sense of being privileged was thick and palpable. Brand name clothing (surprise, surprise) was practically the de facto dress code; a fresas outfit would not be complete without heels and a Prada/Coach/Tous/Louis Vouitton handbag. I wanted to vomit everytime I saw a fresa 'looking cute' in his or her Abercrombie and Hollister gear, and sometimes wondered if I was back in Gringolandia or stuck in an episode of Rebelde. Personal distaste aside, the conspicuous consumption within Ibero's walls and the extreme poverty outside was sickening.
Sometimes I would sit in class and mull over the facts above, and have an out of body experience of sorts. There I was, the daughter of Mexican immigrants, rubbing shoulders with Mexico City's elite. Though not exclusively, I’m talking here about the super wealthy- many a son and daughter of a powerful politician or family, kids who had never used the metro, much less a pesero in their life, drove around in fancy cars and or had chauffeurs, live-in maids, etc. I would sit there and try to imagine what my life would be like had my mom not immigrated to the United States. What would my life be like if instead of being born and raised in the US, I had grown up in Mexico? While I was certain that I wouldn’t be taking classes at la Ibero (not that I’d necessarily want to either), I was less certain of the prospects of being enrolled in any institution, public or private, of higher learning.
Before I began to fully understood how much growing up in the United States had impacted my life and who I am today, a guy in Mexico asked me if I considered myself a "Mexicana" or a "Gringa." I had difficulty answering his question, and failed in clearly explaining the situation, that I was neither, and instead both. In the U.S. at least, my usual response to all 'what are you' queries (masked beneath the innocent 'where are you from' line) had always come in the form of a blunt, "I'm Mexican." For some reason, I had this weird notion that by using a term like Mexican-American I would be trying to downplay my Mexican heritage, and identify myself with something that I wasn't entirely. Living in “la madre patria”, if you will, was a transformative experience, completely changing my perception of self. It was only after I returned to the U.S., that I began to make peace with the term Mexican-American and to embrace the dualities inherent in the term Chicana.
In part because it is where my roots lie, and in part because it is a dream come true for travel, play, and growth, Mexico City will forever be a place I am drawn to. When it came time to go, I said my adioses with a heavy heart, but determined to return.
***Note: This piece is a revised and extended version of an article originally written for Mi Apogeo, Inc.
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