On Being American

To be an America living in and taking classes about Mexico can lead to some interesting situations. I am taking two classes – sociology and Mexican Society and Culture – that deal with the subject of America frequently. On the first day of class, we introduced ourselves, and I proudly stated that I was from Atlanta in the United States. This was a grave mistake as I have not been able to nap in either of these classes since, due to the fact that I now have to be on my toes to field questions that start with “Why don’t we ask our compañero. Compañero, what is ______ like in America?”

My sociology professor is of the opinion that because I am from America, I know all there is to know about anything that is, was, could be, or could have been in any way, however obscurely, connected to America. Sometimes I’m equipped to craft a response, but in other cases I’m not so in tune to what’s happening, as these events are passing in a foreign language. Below is a quick test of your own Americana knowledge consisting of questions I have been asked in class. I have helped by making it multiple choice.

1) What confusing spanish words Chicago School of Economics more spanish words culture of the United States?

a) McDonald’s

b) I don’t think the Chicago School of Economics has a football team, and if they do, they’re not in the SEC.

c) uh….capitalism?

I went with C on this one, more or less word for word, except that when you say “umm…” in Spanish, it sounds more like “ehmmmm…” I do in fact know the importance of the Chicago school of economics on American foreign policy, especially with respect to foreign policy in developing countries, but due to the confusing spanish words I didn’t quite know where all of that fit into the response.

2) What is the social dynamic like in the agricultural areas of America?

a) Tractors and square dancing

b) I don’t go to the University of Alabama.

c) I’m from a city of 5,000,000ish people, but I read city mouse country mouse once, and it seemed like a good time

This one I just kind of shook my head to. The guy from Utah next to me remained silent as well. I should have asked her what its like to live in Belgium. I fear the next question will be something along the lines of “What time do the UPS stores in Kansas close?”

To preface this next one, we were talking about the post world war two Marshall plan, in which the USA gave a lot of cash to Europe, which had a serious war-hangover from WWII, so that we could continue trading with them. We also pumped a little bit of good press into Europe stating how awesome it is to be American so that they would support our plan. No big. We were most definitely the good guy here. And then a student directed this question to our professor:

3) Why does America always brag about their way of life and then complain when people immigrate there?

As this was a question for the professor, I was kind of hoping she would field it, but she crumbled under the pressure and did the cowardly deed of shedding it off to me with those dreaded words “let’s ask our compañero…”

a) What?!? We don’t!

b) Ok so we do a little bit, but…

c) Wait a second. I’m like one dude from a country of three hundred million dudes. That’s more than all the bottles of Tecate and tequila in all of Mexico. I’m not about to speak on behalf of 300,000,000 people. What’s more, I wasn’t even alive in the 1940’s when the Marshall plan was around. Hit up ask jeeves.

I went with C on this one. After articulating my viewpoint, I was asked in follow up for only my personal opinion, so I briefly responded “I don’t complain.”

In addition to the direct questions, I’m often faced with very awkward atmospheres. In my class of Society and Culture of Mexico, we study Mexican history. In Mexican history there have been four “molestations” of the land – three of which involved their loving big brother of a neighbor to the north. We also learned that a Mexican politician (I forget his name) who wanted to nationalize Mexican oil in the late 1800’s or early 1900’s was assassinated by someone, with instructions and backing from you know who. Sometimes I catch people looking my way when we talk about things of this nature. When this happens I look back with an expression that sends the mixed message of “Hey man, listen, sorry about that I guess, this is news to me – it wasn’t me I swear. Let’s be friends.” which is often met with a quick glance back to the front of the room as if to say “I wasn’t looking at you just now because you’re American.”

Today while I was dining, a music video came on the television of a song called “Frijolero” by a group of three Mexicans and one American called Molotov. You can grab a listen to the song here, but I must warn that there are some vulgar lyrics both in Spanish and English. The song is mostly Spanish, but make sure you stick around until the chorus.

A translation of the lyrics can be found here: http://vdare.com/awall/molotov.htm , but I would ask that you please take with a large grain of salt everything else on the website.

The song is pretty strongly anti-American, and from what I have gathered, echoes the sentiment of a large portion of the Mexican population accurately. This means that hearing it in Mexican Company is strange at times. In other news, very little it censored here, so I got to hear the song in its entirety in the cafeteria.

At this point I would like to say to the blogsphere that I was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd while writing this, that I love me some America,  and that I hope this post hasn’t given any other impression. We – America and Mexico – could just settle things with a friendly soccer match, no? Wait, we did, and the US won, 2-0. Case closed.

Birthday Party

Last night I celebrated my birthday with a couple of friends by having  a social gathering at my house. It was a good time for all, and I am now ready to officially exit my teenage years. The night started slowly with a few friends coming over for dinner. I made fried rice – something I learned from my Dad, who know how to prepare three dishes, the other two being fried bologna and Pizza Hut. Marco arrived with some decorations and the news that someone was going to bring some music over later, which was awesome news as all we have is a laptop and its horrible speakers. We tied up some balloons, put the rest of the balloons in the empty swimming pool, and prepared the house for a few more friends.

There’s a few different people who read this, so in order to address what it is that you need to hear as a given reader, I would ask to to follow the instructions below.

If you are my parents, read this:

The party was great. Earlier in the week, I was joking with Marco about buying a piñata for my birthday. Next thing I know, there’s three piñatas at my party. I scored a giraffe, a Landon Donnovan, and a Spiderman. We strung up the piñata and I tried to hit with a stick, but they put a blindfold on me which made it really really hard but it was fun nonetheless. Candy fell out at the end, which tasted really good. Some friends from school came to my party, and we talked about academic things. School is going well, I study a lot. I need money.

If you are my fraternity brothers, read this:

Beerpong. Finally. I’ve been trying to make this happen since I arrived, but ping pong balls and long wooden tables are tough to come by in Mexico. I finally found the balls, bought some cups, but was one table short of teaching Mexicans America’s real past time. I spent all day looking around, even asked someone if I could buy their door. They said yes, but for $20. Out of my price range. I eventually discovered that the beds in the open room had a solid base, so we ended up with a beerpong bed. Jan, a german guy, and myself cleaned house. We were beerpong gods amongst little beerpong men. Knowshons amongst mortals. Nemos amogst Pfingys. The piñata was hard as hell to hit because I was 6 or 7 games deep when I tried to do it, don’t tell my parents. We had a DJ come and blare some music for us. It was no Fly-by-radio, but the density of people was about the same – packed to the walls – which made it a good time. I am now in the same shape I was in after both big brother nights. Please send the pledges, my house looks like festivus.

If you are the people who sponsor my program, read this:

The transmission of culture that took place at my birthday party was both enriching and educational. Here’s a picture of the sunset.

If you taught me spanish in high school: I’ve learned lots of vocabulary here. Today I picked up the words for glass shards (vidrios) and hangover (estar + crudo), and used the imperfect subjunctive to talk about the party last night.

If you are a member of Low End Honey: Monterrey is prime terriotory for launching our international tour. A live band last night would have been the frosting on the beercan.

If you are Chris Golden or my brother (or anyone who wants to come here for spring break): The party we throw if you visit for spring break will be just as fun, if not fun-er.

If you are Nico, my roomate who left the morning of the party to go to the beach for a week: The party wan’t that grerat, only the most fun birthday event of my life. Don’t worry about missing it. Someone else trashed house.

The night was definitely a success. The house we live in was notorious for its parties last year, and I had two ex-tennants and a few others who were around then compliment us by saying “the Casa Azul is back man” which is a pretty big compliment I think. At the end of the night, three piñatas and a few refreshments later, I was most definitely not ready to party like a Mexican and stay up until six in the morning, so I snuck off to bed around 3:30, then this happened. Happy birthday to me.

Police

I attended a party this weekend. It was a pretty standard apartment party – lots of drunk young people in not a lot of space, bottles everywhere, cigarette smoke, loud music, and angry neighbors. I was outside, casually sipping a beer, talking with some friends, when all of a sudden the all too familiar figure of an automobile with lights on top of it turned down the street we were on.

In the States, over the course of high school and college, young men like myself cultivate an extra muscle that senses police activity in one’s area, and then shuts off all functions of the brain as it tries to answer the question of “what do I do now?” which almost always results in awesome descision making under these circumstances. When I saw the cop turn the corner, the beer had already been thrown over my shoulder, I had changed into running clothes, and was in the process of trying my shoes, so very ready to do something dumb. Right before that happened, however, I realized that the drinking age was 18 and I was quite alright, legally speaking. I was still worried about this rambunctious party I was at, however. It was then that one my Mexican compadres explained to me the dynamics of the social relationship between the San Pedro Police and Monterrey’s young people.

Compadre: Yea man, es de, the police can’t really do anything as long as you aren’t drinking in the street.

Randall: Really? Dude that’s awesome. So if I just stand here (on the edge of the property), I can just hang out, maybe say hey. “Hola, policia, ¿como están?”

Compadre: Kind of. But don’t say hey, that’s bad. Then they can come in. Because you said hey.

Randall: Oh. Buzzkill.

Compadre: Yea man, es de, one time I was having a party and things got pretty loud, so the police came around to break it up – they can do that if they get enough complaints. Since it was my house I went outside to talk to them and just explained that the party was over, that it was my house and that we were all going to go to bed. The cop said fine, and left. Fifteen minutes later he came back, and I told him again that things were quieting down, that I was just getting people out and that everyone was going to bed like, pronto. He said fine and left. He came back again some time later, maybe like fifteen or twenty minutes, and by this point I was pretty drunk, so when I went out to talk to him I said “Sorry officer, I’ve been trying to go to sleep, but I can’t, cause you see, es de, there’s a party in my house…”