What's Decent Anymore?

Read any poorly written literature lately? I certainly have, I'm checking out the supposed "latest craze" in novels, Fifty Shades of Grey, and I can safely say, up to this point, it's one of the most poorly written trash novels I have read. I guess you can't ask for much, they even advertise that it's garbage literature on the back cover of the book itself, Erotic Romance indeed. Well, this novel certainly is followed up closely, in the "poorly-written" category, by my last blog, "The Perspective Zone." Of course, my stylistic sins and Grey's are very dissimilar. As I began reading Fifty Shades, I found myself cringing at the falsity and lack of creativity in details like the protagonist's name, Anastasia Steele, and it made me feel a little better about myself. At least I had the tenacity to just unashamedly throw out the most generic name I could think of; Joe Blow, it's a universal character!

Really, if I'm going to be completely honest with myself and the reader, I have no other choice but to admit that my last blog was a story that started out interestingly, but fell flat on its face. The fact is that I simply got tired of writing the story and dropped it where it fell. It's like Gabriel Márquez said, a story either works or it doesn't. When a story doesn't work, the writer should recognize that it doesn't and either scrap it or revise it, not share it (oops). Well, my only excuse is that I really wanted to make a point with that story; let's see if I can achieve that here instead.


I haven't always been able to keep as politically unbiased as I should in these blogs, and I recognize that I might touch on some topics that are politically important. I can't ignore the fact that it's an election year, and I probably won't be able to avoid addressing some subjects that make up a big part of the kinds of problems that we are currently facing in this country. Furthermore, I think that the kinds of things that I am going to talk about are issues that neither party, Republican or Democrat, are really addressing. On the other hand, even though it was most likely a move for votes, I was impressed to see President Obama pass major immigration policy reform. We still need to do much more. Really, I don't think that any of us can turn on the news and listen to these politicians and say honestly to ourselves, "These people are being real, speaking from the heart, only stating the facts and addressing only the serious talking points." As a matter of fact, I'm guessing that most of you, like me, listen to these folks and say, "These are seriously crazy people." Well, maybe I can talk through some of the craziness and get a little real, we shall see. 

The argument I was trying to make with my awful story was that most of us in this country are due for some much needed perspective in our lives. Have you ever heard of the Racial Threat Hypothesis? In case you didn't know such a thing existed or you need a refresher, essentially, this hypothesis, which I recall having learned back in freshman Poli. Sci., states that the degree of racism that people express goes up in areas where there are larger numbers of minority populations. So when you are part of a majority race, but there are large number of individuals from a minority race living in your area, you might have feel, irrationally, threatened by the minority. Based on my experiences, I would like to point out that this is a ridiculous reaction. The truth is, it's the minority that, justifiably, feels threatened.

Before I went to Ecuador, I had already had experience abroad, living in Argentina and traveling to surrounding countries, but that experience, nonetheless, did not prepare me for Ecuador. The time I spent in Ecuador was quite eye-opening in terms of my own racial threat hypothesis. You see, in Argentina, the majority of the population is made up of European immigrants and their descendants (just like in the U.S.), which means that most Argentine people are white. In other words, if I didn't open my mouth in Argentina, I was most often taken for one of them. The demographic picture in Ecuador, on the other hand, is much different. The Ecuadorian population is dominated by mestizo (a combination of Spanish/European blood with native roots) and indigenous peoples, which means that I STOOD OUT.


While it would be ideal for diversity and cultural differences to be truly celebrated, these values are often just required, but not truly felt. The truth is, it was very strange, challenging and often exhausting being so entirely different from everyone around me. It was eye opening for me to step on a bus and have everyone immediately shift their attention to me, sometimes it was a very insecure feeling to know that everyone can look at you and make a series of generalized assumptions based on your looks. My skin color in Ecuador meant many things, for one, it meant that I was most certainly gringo, it meant that I was a tourist with money (which wasn't true, especially the latter) and it often made me a target (for would be thieves, small children asking for money and vendors). Some would say that it's not so bad for everyone to think that you're a rich gringo, but the truth is it can make you feel pretty awful in a country as poor as Ecuador. Firstly, it's not fun, but rather quite sad, for people who have nothing to think that you can help them financially (I hate the idea of the white savior). On the other hand, it is also kind of scary to know that you are identified as a better choice for criminals because you're not from the country and, by default, that means that you have more money or valuables than anyone else (something that is definitely not true in my case). Don't get me wrong, I've always kind of stood out (I was definitely an outcast in school), but this was the first time that I experienced people making many assumptions about me based solely on my color, it really was an amazing perspective gained. 


So, I would like to close with a sentiment that I have always had, but that was certainly reinforced by Ecuador. That sentiment is as follows, people are people; it's that simple, there are good people and bad people and that is it. What's decent anymore? People, they are decent or they are not. The thing is, we have to get to the point where all of us realize that someone's race, sexual orientation, religious views, etc. don't matter at all, you're either a good person or a bad person. Everything else about a person that makes them different, unique or makes them stand out, is an opportunity for personal enrichment on the part of someone that meets them, it's an opportunity for gained perspective. My experiences in Ecuador were nowhere near as negative as the treatment many minorities or foreigners experience in this country. The worst thing for me was that everyone assumed I was a rich white target for robbery. In the States, on the other hand, minorities are often assumed to be poor, uneducated, prone to illegal activities, and altogether lesser peoples. Don't even get me started on the way immigrants are treated; just look at what they're doing in Arizona, saying it's okay to ask people for their citizenship papers because of the way they look. They call it "probable cause to doubt the individual's citizenship," which is a nice way of saying, "This person is tan-skinned so they must be Mexican." If I, at times, felt uncomfortable in Ecuador because of my skin color, just imagine how minorities and immigrants must feel in the states, and that's the perspective I wanted to share in my terrible story.

Next Stop: the Fifth Dimension Known as the Perspective Zone

            

           Rod Serling was constantly making reference to a Fifth Dimension, “Beyond that which is known to man.” He loved to say that it was a dimension, “…of sight and of sound,” but I would like to disagree with the title of this dimension. That’s right, Serling had it wrong, it’s not the “Twlight Zone,” it’s the “Perspective Zone.” I am speaking, of course, of a unique place that only a privileged few have the opportunity to visit during their lifetimes. The Perspective Zone is a place where everything you think and know is challenged, where your reality is flipped on to its head and you have no other option but to come to some realistic and undeniable conclusions.

Shall I open with a true Serlingesque statement? I think it is the only appropriate option here, really. Take, if you will, the following scenario of a man lost in an unknown land, he is a man who, for all intents and purposes, we will call Joe Blow. The last thing Joe remembers is having fallen asleep on American Airlines flight number 342, bound for HOU. When Joe wakes up, the plane has already come to a complete stop at the gate, the “fasten seat belt” sign has been turned off and people are standing up to open the overhead compartments and remove their carry-on luggage. Joe gathers up his own personal items and proceeds to head up the aisle, onto the connecting bridge and emerges into an airport terminal that he does not recognize at all. Thus enters Joe into the Perspective Zone.

He has been to the Houston airport several times on business trips, this is not it. The first thing he notices is that everyone looks different from him; they all have dark skin, dark hair and are petit. His first thought is to sort out what has happened with the information desk, but, as he has never been to this airport, he has no clue where the information desk is. He decides to ask someone. He walks up to the first person he sees, a middle-aged looking woman of short stature, glasses and dark curly hair, and he asks her if she has any idea where the information desk is, “Señor, no le entiendo nada, ¿habla español?” Joe becomes frustrated and tries, with no avail, to speak to the woman both louder and slower. As he walks away from the shocked woman who is now standing with her mouth open and a very confused look on her face, he thinks to himself, “Here we are in the U.S. and people can’t even speak English.” The woman was thinking, in contrast, “Aquí tenemos un tipo que viene hasta Ecuador y no habla ni una palabra de español, ¿y ahora?” It is not after Joe tries to communicate with three other people, a young lady on a cell phone, an old man with a dog and an angry gentleman with a cigar, that he realizes that no one in the airport speaks English. He resolves to find the information desk on his own.

As it turns out, the desk was not all that hard to find, the airport seemed relatively small and Joe only had to follow the natural flow that all modern airports seem to possess (if you’ve been in one, you’ve been in most). He walked to the end of a long corridor, through a security check point, out into the luggage claim area and up some stairs to the pick-up area. It was there that he found a pretty and very bored looking, twenty-something, woman, seated at a desk below a big hanging question mark, twirling her hair with one hand and leaning her face on the other. The first thing that he said when he came to the desk was, “English?” With an accent that Joe really didn’t recognize, she replied, “Yes sir, how caan I heelp you?” Joe was certainly relieved to finally find someone who understood him, but he couldn’t contain the rest of his anxiety, “Where the hell am I?”

After a lot of convincing and reassuring on the part of the pretty and board woman, Joe came to terms with the fact that he was now in Ecuador, South America. Once he was directed to the American Airlines counter, he sorted out that, somehow, he was boarded on the wrong plane. “I giive you my moost siinceerest apologies, Miister Blow,” Joe was informed by a not so pretty, balding, man that he would need to stay the night at a nearby hotel, as there were no remaining return flights to Houston that night. The happy man finished up with his sincere apologies and by saying, “We do haave some good neews, fors you seer, your luggage diid make iit to Houstone!” They provided Joe with the address to the hotel and sent him on his way.

He had already had quite enough perspective, but Joe really had no idea what kind of night he was in store for. As he had no bags, he made directly for the airport exit, but was stopped by a little girl before he reached the automatic doors. The girl was the epitome of sadness, her face, hair and hands were dirty, she looked as if she were about to cry and she carried with her a bucket that was just as big as her. Joe really couldn’t figure what was in the bucket until the girl extracted a red flower from it, which was wrapped in plastic and she held it out to him saying, “¿rosa? He assumed that this meant “rose”, but he really had no need for a rose. The girl followed him all the way to the taxis saying, “rosa señor, rosa,” and, by the time he was getting into the car, she was screaming, crying and making an altogether scandal.

Things didn’t improve much with the taxi driver. The man spoke no English beyond, “Hello my friind.” He resorted to trying to say the name of the hotel as best he could and he showed him the paper it was written down on. An hour later, after what seemed to be more of a circuit than a straight trip, the taxi driver promptly charged Joe double what they told him the trip should cost in the airport. He shut the door, accidentally a bit hard, and the driver drove off shouting at him what he assumed were profanities in Spanish.

The rest of his night was rather similar, full of confusions, mistranslations, and misunderstandings. The thing that most impacted Joe, however, was the way he was looked at and the way he felt. The reality was that he found himself in a foreign country; he was taller than everyone, white and didn’t speak the language. From the airport, to the hotel and while he was out for dinner, he noticed people looked at him quite a bit, they almost studied. Not being used to gaining this kind of attention, Joe felt rather uneasy. Every place and thing was new and different, the constructions were nothing like what he was used to, the cars strange and foreign and the order/rules appeared to him unclear or nonexistent.

When he had finished his meal (a plate he turned out not to enjoy at all because he had no idea what he had actually ordered), he tried to ask around to find out what the best way to get back to the hotel was, no luck. He felt that the taxi ride from his hotel to the restaurant was pretty short and he thought that he wouldn’t have much trouble finding his way back on foot. It turns out he was wrong about his assumption. He walked around for about an hour, found himself seriously lost and began to become a bit nervous. The hour he spent getting lost was full of hard stares from the people he walked by on the streets, asking people for help that couldn’t understand him and passing dozens of street corners that all looked the same. He made a turn down one street and found himself walking toward a group of five teenagers that he perceived as menacing. He began to walk fast and try to avoid eye contact, but he was stopped.

Joe began to freak out, but one of the boys asked him, in a perfectly understandable English, “Are you lost sir?” Joe explained to the boys that he had gotten lost trying to find his way back to his hotel and asked them if they had any idea how to get there. Not only did they tell Joe where his apartment was, they actually walked with him back. Joe thanked them all and webt up to his hotel room. The next morning, Joe made his way back to the airport and, relieved to be going home, boarded his plane to Houston. 

New Old Scene

Dear reader, 

I had expressed, in previous blogs, my intention to continue writing in this space, even after returning from Ecuador. South America is never far off, my return flight to Quito is in December, but I think that an opportunity to share some perspective has most definitely presented itself with my return to the states. The transition process of returning from a country like Ecuador creates a very unique opportunity to comment on several different subjects. I can´t guarantee that the publications of this new series of blogs will be as frequent as those I wrote in Ecuador (my free time is much more limited now), nor can I make any promises as to the intrigue produced by these new blogs (I don´t know that they´ll be anywhere near as exciting or enlightening as those I wrote in Ecuador), but I will make my very best effort to only write on topics of interest. So, should you choose to follow these new blogs of mine, I hope you will not be disappointed. You may have noticed that I made some changes to the layout of the blog space, I hope this new simple format makes the entries much easier to read (with new material comes a new design). Among other things, I hope to comment on the contrasts that I notice between Latin America and the US (for example, ever thought it was interesting that the US isn't referred to as Anglo America?). Fortunately, I have been given the opportunity to teach Spanish at ISU again, and I would also like to discuss my teaching experiences there in the coming semester. Apart from these engagements, I am hoping that other writing opportunities will present themselves during my time spent back here in the US of A. Anyhow, if you stick with me, I'll stick with you. Let's see where we can go with this, if anywhere.

Thanks,

Chris

Return to the Land of the North: Welcome back, from the TSA

Being in Miami Airport is like still being in Latin America, sort of. I say this because practically everyone speaks Spanish and you hear it everywhere. That's about where the similarities to Latin America end.  Up until this point, I've been thoroughly annoyed with me reentry/Miami Airport experience.

First off, I really dislike Miami, the people here tend to be rude as hell. As I said in my earlier entry, Miami is a ridiculously huge airport (I think I've walked about a mile and a half). Really, the size of the airport isn't the actual source of my irritation, it's, once again, the TSA that has managed to get under my skin.

First off, you have to walk about a mile to get to customs, this walk comes complete with a bunch of signs reminding you that you're walking in the direction of "Passport Control" (aka HELL). Once you get to HELL, get to have the most miserable government employees in the world yell at you, "Move to this line, step forward, follow the yellow dots, do a hand stand, whistle the Star-Spangled Banner, etc. etc. All of that is just to get them to let you back in the country. 

Once I got through he wonderful experience of passing through the passport verification process, I got to meet my new favorite TSA agent. From the moment I saw this guy and he started talking, I wanted to tell him, "There's something about your face that makes me want to punch it." Instead of doing that, I decided I try to accomplish reentry to the country and answer all of this guy's stupid, and I mean stupid, questions.  

Here is the rundown of the interrogation:
TSA Moron: Where you been?
Me: Quito, Ecuador
TSA Moron: Are you sure that's where you have been? 
Me: Yes 
TSA Moron: How long were you there? 
Me: 8 months
TSA Moron: There are a lot of good things in Quito, but there are also a lot of bad things. My job is to find the bad things. So, you bringing any bad things for me? 
Me: No
TSA Moron: What were you doing in Ecuador? 
Me: Volunteer work for a foundation called Yachana
TSA Moron: And how long were you in Ecuador? (second time he asks me this, as if I were going to slip up and tell him something different)
Me: 8 months 
TSA Moron: Okay, so were you in Ecuador as a missionary?
Me: No
TSA Moron: So who were you working for? 
Me: a volunteer foundation called Yachana (this is where I almost lost my temper) 
TSA Moron: So that's not and NGO? You know, a Non Government Organization. 
Me: I know, and no. 
TSA Moron: Okay, follow the yellow dots, welcome back.
Me: [Mumble not nice things under my breath]

Fun times, huh?  Aside from that lovely experience, here is a list of observations that I have made so far:
1. Hearing English on TV, over intercoms and in the form of chatter from people is a bit overwhelming. I don't know if it is the contrast with having heard Spanish for the past eight months, but Americans sound loud! 
2. Americans, it's diet time! I have noticed how much bigger people are.
3. Marketing is attacking me from all sides! 
4. There are a lot of people here! 
5. This place is big! 
6. In the news, they're discussing the latest attempted terrorist attack, which is scary and depressing. :-( I haven't heard a thing about terrorism for 8 months. 
7. I was strangely annoyed by some guy who was trying to make friendly conversation (he was complaining about the wait for HELL).
8. Things are expensive! I was going to buy a drink, but not for $3 bucks. 
9. Aside from the guy that tried to make annoying conversation, everyone seems very unfriendly and I feel just the same.
10. This air conditioning is freezing me out! 
11. MIA Wifi isn't free and I'm not paying $4 bucks for 30 mins of net. 
12. They're talking about things I have no clue about on the news. 

I'm sorry if I seem very negative, I'm sure positive things will happen eventually. I think, up until now, I've had negative experiences because I'm in a lousy airport.

Return to the Land of the North: Plane ride UIO-MIA

Here I am in the plane. The boarding process amused me because of a chance meeting with an old "elitist" lady. These older wealthy Latin Americans (I call them the old elite, ancianos del elite) never cease to amaze me. She asked me if I was Argentine and I told her no, but I could be a "Kirchnerista" (someone who supports Argentine president Christina Kirchner). Her response to that was, "Es por eso que estamos en semejante situación en América Latina, por los jóvenes que creen en fantasmas" (That's why we're in this kind of situation in Latin America, because of the young people who believe in ghosts). She may have been referring to Ernesto Guevara, but something gave me the impression that she was more talking about her frustration with the fact that the rich Latinos, such as herself, are losing their ability to continue increasing their wealth through corruption and exploitation of the working class. Big surprise, when I got on the plane, I saw she was seated in business class.

Flights to and from Latin America are interesting because they're bilingual. Everything  is said first in English, then repeated in Spanish. Sometimes the translations aren't exactly word for word, but the general idea is the same.  One thing that's rather amusing about these English/Spanish flights is that you get to watch the flight attendants play the Latino or Gringo Guessing Game. I can just imagine the thoughts going through their minds, "Hmm, this guy must be gringo because he's white, but, then again, there are white Latinos." Then you can observe their next, better play it safe, move, "Buenos días, good morning." When they served the meals it was, "Buen provecho, enjoy!" From there, it depended on me, to speak Spanish or English, I opted for Spanish (may as well hang on to it as long as I can).

Back to the Land of the North

I'm on the first leg of my flight back to the land of the north. I'm sitting in the tiny Quito airport (you don't have to worry about which gate your flight leaves from because there's only one) waiting on a flight that heads to Miami at 09:45 and lands after four hours. There isn't much of interest to speak of at this point, except for the convenience of this little bity airport.  As I explained in my first ever Ecuador blog, Quito's airport is very dangerous due to the fact that it's smack dab in the middle of the city. On the other hand, I love it because of the facts that we got here in 15 minutes and it's so small that it's easy. If you've ever been in one of these huge international airports (my friend Mark calls Chicago's O' Hare, "O' Hell") then you know what I mean when I say that they're ridiculous. Those airports, like the Miami one that I'm flying to, are like small cities, they have their own zip codes and they're impossible to navigate. Let me tell you, I'm looking forward to getting lost in MIA today, not! Give me my tiny UIO any day.

No Contaron Con Mi Astucia (They Didn't Count on My Intellect)

One of Ecuador's main attractions is alpaca! I say that half jokingly, but, at the same time, it's true (I'll explain later). You can go to almost any part of Ecuador and find an artisan market full of gifts made by indigenous ecuadorians. In the selva, the artisan crafts consist mostly of decorative jewelry (bracelets, necklaces, etc.). Now, where the real goods are, at least for most tourists, seems to be in the mountain regions.  The majority of artisan goods that come from the sierra are mass produced by the Otavaleños,  Quichuas, named so because they're originally from Otavalo. The manufacturing and distributing of their products is a huge enterprise, not only in Ecuador, but all over the world.  Alpaca, that seems to be the unifying theme of all of the markets where the Otavlaeño artisan goods are found. If you go to the Mercado Artesanal (Artisan Market) of Quito, you will find nearly a hundred little stands, all selling pretty much the same things. You've got sweaters, hats, gloves, scarfs, pants, and so on, all available in a variety of colored alpaca fur. You can even get a sweater made of alpaca with alpacas on it! It's funny because, while it is cold in many parts of Ecuador, especially in the mountains, this gear would be suitable for the Arctic Circle!  Fortunately, not everything is made of alpaca, and you can find some decent stuff, if you have time to look. With everything being the same in every stand (not a good marketing strategy from what I remember in my studies), I arrive at my next point, bargaining. The time concern doesn't only depend on looking. Another very important part of going to an Otavaleño market, apart from sifting past the alpaca, is bargaining. It's called "regatear", or, as my friend Mónica likes to call it, "pelear" (fight), and it is not only accepted, but expected.  Why am I telling you about all of this? Well, this past week I spent a couple of days at the market, buying gifts to take back to the states, and I got some good stuff! As el Chapulín Colorodo, from a hugely famous Mexican comedy show, would say, "No contaron con mi astucia," (they didn't count on my intellect). I went to the market with my secret weapon, Mónica!  Mónica not only has a couple of friends at the Mercado Artesanal, she also loves to pelear. With her help, I made out like a bandit, and I only bought a couple of alpaca things! Now I've got all my gifts ready to go, they're currently passing from a conveyor belt to the airplane. Let's hope American doesn't lose my bag!