The Power Status of the Radio

Every director and caregiver in the house is equipped with un radio, or walkie-talkie, for quick, easy communication. Having one places you in a different level in the NPH power pyramid. Once the kids graduate from high school and enter their first year of service by being a caregiver, cook, working on the farm or in maintenance, they're awarded their radio.

As volunteers, we aren't so privileged to be a part of the radio network. From a practical standpoint, it's not extremely necessary for us to have one as we are more here as extra help and can be contacted by a phone call or door knock if need be. Still, I envied my fellow co-workers, directors and caregivers whose back-and-forth of "Olguin, Olguin" - "Adelante" I wanted to be a part of.

I never thought I would rise to such status, but just this past Friday, Sophie and I, after nine-and-a-half months of volunteering, were each awarded a radio. For the first time this week, I have heard my name coming from the radio. The call of "Naomi, Naomi" effusing from the speaker has been music to my ears and an affirmation that I have established myself in NPH as more than a temporary, occasional volunteer presence.

The award of the radio came because the women's director will be out-of-town on vacation for the next couple weeks. Her vacancy left just one caregiver in charge of the seventy girls in the house. Sophie and I are to help the lone caregiver in her absence and hereby donned on us two radios.

It's been a unique week - one in which by girls have asked me permission to do things more than ever before, one in which the director of the house has given Sophie and me important responsibilities, and one in which, for the first time, we will be full-time parental figures in-charge of the girls this weekend in their wake-ups, chores, activities, permission to leave the house, and everything in between.

I thank-you, radio, for the responsibility you have give me.

Personal Space

American's are infamous for their need of seemingly excess personal space and stricter definition of privacy. As any home-grown American, I have come to appreciate the one-and-a-half- to four-foot distance between me and the person with whom I'm conversing, the freedom to browse a clothing store without an assistant following my every move, and the peace and quiet of my home without intrusions of neighborly noises (for the most part).

Living in Mexico has challenged my definition of personal space in more ways than one. Mexicans love to always be touching - so I've adjusted to the kids constantly holding my arm, pinching my belly fat, and pulling at my hair. Noise ordinance laws don't exist - so I've become a master of falling asleep while duranguense music blasts next door until 2AM in the morning while the neighbors celebrate the birthday of some distant relative. Earphones rarely make an appearance either - so I've kept my sanity in the NPH offices by bringing my own earphones to block out the overlapping, clashing musical interests of my office mates' speakers. Even the cats here in Mexico seem to endlessly be in heat always right outside my window during the hours of 1-3AM in the morning.

I'll be glad to get some of that American personal space back - if only for the sake of a little less air pollution.

Cinco No Mayo

Cinco de Mayo? Not a peep from anyone yesterday in reference to this, what I now see as a, great American holiday.

My Spongebob calendar from the U.S. marked May 1st AND 5th as holidays celebrated in Mexico. While the offices and schools did have off from work on Monday, I'm not sure what it was for (nor do any of the kids). If you want the real holiday, you've got to come down on September 15th for Dia de la Independencia.

Back home I hope you enjoyed margaritas and Coronas. Here I enjoyed a nice cup of agua de limon with my kids. Cheers to Cinco de Mayo - in the United States.

Mexican Starbucks

I wrote this entry a few months ago but never posted it. With two trips to Starbucks this past weekend, I was reminded of my un-posted commentary.


Starbucks (Mexican chain) - A little taste of America, in more ways than one.
Your welcome Starbucks for your new slogan.

I accompanied Sophie today to Starbucks. Having yet been to one in Mexico, and yearning for someplace warm yet outside of the house on this rainy day, I was happy to make the trek.

Little did I know that the Mexican Starbucks would remind me of America for reasons other than the sight of the Twin-Tailed Siren and its familiar, house-roast aroma. Looking around, I noticed the clientele of this Starbucks was exclusively lighter skinned than the average Mexican skin tone. It caught my attention right away because in the NPH home, most of the children are medium- to darker-skinned. In fact, any kid in the home that's slightly pale (and pale in Mexico would be an Anglo-Saxon with a nice tan) is usually given the nickname guero or "pale-one." The name has even spread to me, and many of my kids affectionately call me guera. Point being, in Cuernavaca for the first time, I was sitting with the most number of gueros that I had seen since my arrival six months prior.

I got to thinking about racial divides (forgive me for referencing a social construct), something still ever present in the United States but not something I had considered in Mexico up until that day in Starbucks. Why, in this cushy, high-priced coffee shop could I only find lighter-skinned Mexicans? Why, in the home I volunteer which aids orphaned, abandoned, and abused children, are 95% of the children darker-skinned? And why was I suddenly feeling so disturbed with myself that I felt at home immediately upon entering the doors?

The answers are all too apparent. How had I fooled myself into thinking we had progressed so much further than we actually have?