Thoughts From the Unschooling Underbelly

I'm putting my pen down and leaving the pages blank. This will be my last post on this short-lived blog.
Since my most popular post Unschoolers No More was shared here last September, a lot of personal growth has taken place. The personal evolution I'm currently experiencing is now prompting me to stop writing as an individual blogger.
I learned a lot from this experience after the almost 11 thousand hits my post generated and the hundreds of online discussions and heartfelt private messages it prompted.
I want to share with you some of the main knowledge I acquired from this short journey as an individual blogger. My hope is that in sharing my experience, we can embark on a joint quest that will strengthen the community of self-directed learners, unschoolers, homeschoolers and ancestral schoolers we are all a part of.
I want to begin by talking about how that post, in particular, was not only inspired by my personal journey but also by my experiences living in the unschooling underbelly. That portion of our subculture where people like me and those below me in the hierarchy experience the horrors of what our "community" has to offer. The section where parents are forced to choose between upholding their own humanity and that of their children or compromise it in order to belong and to secure a meager place in a community that is only interested in interacting with marginalized people under the terms of the dominant culture.
In that portion of the underbelly, I have seen and been one of the many marginalized people who become disposable, censored, silenced for sharing their experiences, standing up for our histories, perspectives, needs or wants. Many of us have been made to disappear for daring to request our children's physical, emotional and racial safety is respected by those around us, those individuals who are seen as unschooling and homeschooling authorities and even by the organizations that have power over the environment and the cultures we inhabit as self-directed learners.
In that underbelly, I have witnessed the colonization and gentrification of entire homeschooling communities under the excuse of fake diversity. Many of my friends and I have been tokenized and mined for knowledge, services, skills and even for the need to appear racially progressive.
Mistakenly, I set out to write a blog as an individual in an attempt to carve out a higher place for myself in the homeschooling hierarchy. You see, they say when in Rome one must do as the Romans do and I witnessed many "Romans" in this community carve out individualistic triangles of power for themselves as a way to survive and "thrive."
Those triangles of whyte lady sisterhood often offer “sisterhood and community” in our circles, packaged in a disingenuous way that, reeks of  "a slurry of cultural appropriation, spiritual bypassing, neoliberalism, multilevel marketing, and random woo punctuated by various signals of authority, virtue and performative vulnerability…" I noticed, in this misguided attempt to carve out my place in this our world, I was personally in danger of becoming a messianic leader as evidenced by the correspondence and attention I got with one single blog post.
The truth is however, I am not interested in being a Roman and doing as the Romans do in order to survive in this community. I will not follow the lead of my oppressors and put people below me to survive or gain power. I want my friends beside me and around me as equals instead.  
You see, I was not anticipating the personal journey I set out to share here... as misguided attempt to become visible in my own right, would be so attractive for the predatory ways of those who long for their own lost culture. I did not anticipate the danger of my culture being appropriated by the dominant culture. I underestimated the thirst for wisdom of whyte women in search of guidance and magic in cultures which are not their own.
I must clarify, I adored and immensely enjoyed the lovely and genuine interactions I got to have with the many women of color that contacted me. Some beautiful friendships are blossoming as a result.
I received countless of private messages by whyte mothers who don't feel at ease in Unschooling forums, asking how to apply my "Ancestral Schooling" principles to their lives. I would like to emphasize the word "MY." You see, I was incredibly naive in engaging in the "Romans" game of self-marketing and personal branding even if it was just for reputation and not economic profit. I did not realize the dangers of sharing my experience solely for personal brand creation. I neglectfully forgot in the current state of our culture it is actually impossible for many to "appreciate other cultures without claiming them", or trying them on for size even if it is not theirs. 
Writing this blog was putting me in danger of becoming a "new age pan Indian guide" in service of whyte women, who need to do their own healing work and come to terms with their own racial identity and standing in the racial hierarchy.
At a time where all our family is doing is getting our feet wet in the decolonizing waters and stumbling as any beginner does, I don't want to be anyone's Messiah. Not now, not ever. What I really want and need, is a community with which to share and exchange knowledge and experiences in equal terms and I need that community to be respected so whatever we share or jointly create does not get sucked into a capitalist hole.
I need equal information sharing, a free flow of ideas from other marginalized folks. I want shared wisdom in community because "The world doesn’t need new leaders the world needs new ideas. Ideas that tell me I don’t have to walk like that or talk like this; that me and you can be different; because listen to this and this is wisdom people die but ideas live forever." And all those women who wrote to me seeking my leadership and trying my personal solution on for size they need to understand their solution is within them, not in me or my culture. Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in the importance of visibility of marginalized communities in our subculture. However, I no longer believe in individualistic visibility for the purpose of self-promotion which is what I was misguidedly doing and plan to stop.
So this is my last blog post before inviting others as my equals, to become a collective of writers in a group I hope to form in balanced equitable terms with the support of many. Who is in?!

All I Really Need to Know...I Learned in My Abuela's Kitchen

The simple understated wisdom of a Mexican Abuelita must never be underestimated. An Abuela's tacit persuasive powers are hypnotic and a granddaughter might not notice the full extent of those ancestral powers until years later when the need for them arises. It is then that a powerful spiritual force takes over from within if one listens in the quiet stillness to the guidance embedded in a memory. The key is to listen with an open heart allowing familiar instincts to take over, after processing those gut feelings thru the soul and noticing how good they feel.

An Abuelita's guidance shows up during unexpected moments and instances, it can be prompted by a toddlers tug of one's pants while making dinner. A tug reminding a Mother to take things slow and enjoy her child's presence. In that moment, the fully grown grandaughter... now a mother will remember those times when hypnotized by the scents and sounds of the kitchen, she too made her way in there to observe Abuelita's comings and goings. The granddaughter might remember how, with a sweet glance and an open smile, Abuelita took pains to include her in her work, making it theirs. The granddaughter might remember how she was allowed to choose a collaborative task according to her skills an interest, a task which was real and meaningfully contributed to the final product,  adding concrete value to it once finalized. A grandaughter will remember how those skills flourished under Abuelita's nurturing understated guidance. A granddaughter will remember to do the same with her child as she makes dinner.

A granddaughter will remember how the taste of that experience increased her eagerness to contribute an belong to the family's cooking circle whenever it gathered. A granddaughter will remember how her skills "magically" improved as she tried to keep up with the Aunts, Sisters, and Cousins working together to create communal happiness thru the food prepared for all. A granddaughter will remember how the efforts of teamwork made huge tasks seem manageable. A granddaughter will remember her own daughter needs those meaningful feelings when learning something new and will seek or create those learning opportunities for her child.
The granddaughter will remember the amenable shared leadership of the elders around her and how that leadership included her too, allowing her to have opinions and make choices. "Does this need more salt? Should we make more? Do you think it will be enough?" All questions she too had a valid say on. All questions which found her answers valid. All dilemmas she was allowed to solve using her own initiative. The flexibility, fluidity and collaborative calm of those communal situations leave an imprint and a longing. Making granddaughters thirsty and eager to replicate them whenever surrounded by other women. Sometimes more successfully than others.
After those experiences alongside an Abuelita, a granddaughter always remembers how to share responsibilities when creating something, how to share information and skills with others to achieve a final product, how to keep up or slow down one's working pace to maintain a group's rhythm. A granddaughter remembers how to seek guidance from the circle of communal workers, who at once become communal teachers and students depending on the task or the stage of the task. A granddaughter remembers communication is part of coordination and guidance and it can come from anywhere within the cooking circle and be equally valued.
Is that not everything a granddaughter needs to know to raise a child?

We are Self-Directed Learners and Identify Ourselves as "Schoolers"...Why?

Salsas Tapatío and Valentina. Same roots, different branches. One Chicanx, the other Mexican. Nuance and duality at work.

In a complex nuanced world, which includes many colored shades within the spectrum of the black and white present in any given personality we bond with, any new subject we encounter or new situation we face...Our family has found, ignoring the nuances becomes a huge disadvantage in our journey towards self-directed life long learning or just our plain survival within the dominant culture.
Culturally, we find limiting ourselves to black and white thinking fails to account for the natural shifting or evolution of knowledge and situations, as we are traditionally accustomed to perceiving them. Thru our cultural lenses, almost nothing is monolithic and viewing the world in monolithic ways is confusing for us, because we find it stalls or stunts our learning and therefore our freedom to innovate or evolve in any realm. In our case, it can fatally impair our ability to survive some of the tough situations we face as a family of color. 

As self-directed Ancestral Schoolers, the seemingly contradictory use of the word "schoolers", to identify the way we learn, is a token of our cultural duality and a reflection of the marginalized reality we sometimes face as Chicanx. Even as our unearned privileges and hard earned advantages are evident, as freely as our individual family has chosen and managed to make our lives be, we are not blinded to the social and political realities that cause us to have to culturally code switch. We have to code switch not only when we learn in certain settings, but also adjust the way in which we translate our existence for the dominant culture to understand it. Since we live within it, we adjust as we figure out ways to try our best to have our cake and eat it too without "escapism, denial, or succumbing to fantasy." In fact, I'm doing it right now. I'm writing in my second language so you all can read me and we can interact.

As a Chicanx family, we are the human embodiment of the realities of our non-monolithic world. 
Families like ours, are the product of the crash between the totalitarianism of the European colonizers and the cultural nuances of our Indigenous origin. Our origin story and current reality contain the remains of many cultures in which gender, race, and hierarchies, were multifaceted. Most of us Chicanx, come from a group of people which acknowledges the existence of more than two genders and at some point during colonization had to learn to live under the oppressive classifications of a system which divided us into hierarchical groups of more than sixteen "castas," all of which underhandedly continue to have an effect in the ways in which we as Mexicans relate with each other and others. These internal and external contradictions have transformed us into nuance itself. We still live our daily lives surviving the ancestral and current attrition of our culture, language, and beliefs. 

We the people, which most now know as a single group called Mexicans, are people accustomed to navigating the nuances of the many customs, multiple cultures, social classes and peoples which inhabit México. We are the part of the people forming all these diverse populations, which sometimes fight and sometimes equitably share knowledge and resources thru "tequio," an ancestral custom of communal work and resource sharing, spread out around the many groups populating our territory.  
Despite this being a forgotten tradition only formally shared by a minority of the Mexican population, many Mexicans still continue to practice forms of tequio informally,  in diverse ways and different settings. Tequio is part of the way in which we ourselves form community and learn among friendly allies.
It is because of this history, we can innately adapt into any and many learning situations and the reason we are survivors. It is also the reason many of us can laugh, cry and sing all at once at funerals, the reason we can speak Spanglish, and the reason some of us can venerate the Virgen of Guadalupe and La Santa Muerte with the same fervor, whether we are religious or not. These are just some examples of what appear to be our contradictions. These are the same reasons we have learned effective ways to appease those who feel threatened by our otherness, the reasons many of us can make our voices and our vocabularies sound white over the phone while at work and so "barrio" when among our friends and family at home. 

As a family, our use of the word "schooling" to define ourselves, while at the same time denouncing school and everything it stands for, announces our freedom to be our multifaceted selves. We recognize that at any time, the dominant culture might need a diploma as proof of our worth as people of color. We are recognizing there might be times when our marginalized circumstances might cause our reliance in school. We are also recognizing our determination not to let that stop us from fighting to regain our learning independence and achieve decolonization.

There was a time at the beginning of our self-directed journey, when we initially organized our new knowledge about self-directed education, by compartmentalizing it. As figurative black and white pieces and notions, in order to avoid being overwhelmed by the amount of knowledge and skills to be absorbed on the way to mastery. Later, as confidence and signs of proficiency begun to appear, experimentation and creativity began to happen, giving way to breakthroughs. Which is how we have surpassed plateaus and our nuanced learning independence was born. 
While under the spell of the wrongfully conceived idea that we originated from a culture of inexperienced self-directed learners... Our family experienced stressful situations such as fear of the unknown when attempting something we thought was "new" or "alternative."
After we realized our reality, such stress ceased to have an effect on us, giving birth to our newly found adaptability and flexibility, as we face our complex reality as a Chicanx family. We do not fit into the paradigm and in that nuanced context, we paradoxically feel at home.

P.S. Just for fun! A little bit of pop culture humor in honor of our Chicanx struggles.

Unschoolers No More

After eight years our family is switching gears, we are unschoolers no more. 
It has been a long time coming yet, we barely just noticed the need for a change. 
Personal and family journeys of decolonization are often slow and take many twists and turns...lots of ups and downs. When it comes to our life learner's journey into self-direction, this issue hasn't been the exception. Twist and turns abound indeed. We are surprised not to have noticed but the signs were there all along. 
They were there when my Mom and Mother in Law took turns taking care of me for 40 days after I gave birth, giving me caldo and tea so I would get strong and produce lots of milk for my newborn. They were there when my daughter was seven months and I tried to carry her using a sheet around my back when I couldn't find an affordable Mexican rebozo. 
They were there when I was at the library and a hip looking Mom from the dominant culture asked me if I was an attachment parent and would I mind telling her more about my methods...And I said I didn't know what that was and she looked at me like I was stupid as I replied "I'm just doing what my Mom and the women in my family do" and got the heck away from her and her kid as soon as I could, just to avoid her contentious stare. 
They were there when I instinctively knew to seek a circular community of women in the same situation as me, with children like my child so she would have others to speak Spanish with. 
They were there when I knew to let her play with dirt. When I knew to let her cook among us, the women in the family, because regardless of age women of our kind always have a part to play and a weight to carry in a cooking circle. Which happens to always turn into a life wisdom sharing circle, as we work. 

The signs got a little blurry when the women in my circle started sending their kids to school and their kids started to disappear into the business of their school days. I remember telling my husband, I didn't like how quiet and stiff our daughter looked when we tried out a formal classroom for a day. Would he be willing to consider homeschooling? 
The sign was there when he replied with an obvious, yet shocking question..."Aren't you homeschooling already by being part of that Spanish immersion coop? What would change?" Indeed I was! So this time I followed the sign and reminded myself of how, when I was twelve and our family's fortune changed, I was "unschooled" by our oppressive circumstances and was given the chance to work alongside adults. A valuable experience, which turned out to be the secret to my professional success later in life. The sings blurred again, as the pressure of the dominant culture told me my child wouldn't learn to read if I didn't teach her and yet she did. On her very own at an early age.
  
The signs began to get fuzzy again, as I sought online guidance an read things that resonated with me. Mostly Unschooling literature and advice..."Deeper multi-generation connections within the family and community"check. "Emotional safety and connection are necessary for learning to happen" check. "Value and enjoy the journey and process" check. "Unschooling produces life long learners" check. "Learning takes place anytime and anywhere" check."Learning is pleasurable and noncoercive" check. "Learning happens as a coincidence as we go about our lives" check."Learning is a communal activity" check. "Learning comes as a product of emotional connection" check. Check on all those things I could recognize, as part of my own personal educational experiences. I immediately thought...I must be an uschooler!!! That's what we are, I affirmed to my husband and child. They followed suit. 

Then more signs crossed my journey but I overlooked them. Like when after doing research and realizing school is mainly and instrument for colonization and destruction of cultures like ours, how it is mainly a European invention used to disconnect children and youth...here I was...Learning from others that were not my kin, who had very much sanitized and reclaimed our old ancestral customs  calling them new. I had been sitting on an ancestral treasure a treasure of self-directed education and knowledge preserved thru thick and thin so it could sit invisible right in front of me after generations.

Then the moment of truth came after having unschooling discussions among other women of color, who also felt discomfort using the unschooler label for themselves and their families. The moment came, after several visits to México in a short amount of time. During which I took the time to interview some of our elders, for oral history purposes and I realized many of our ancestors grew up under "unschooling' circumstances just like I did. 
Circumstances which for them,  involved being put down and marginalized for their informal ways of learning, of playing barefoot and unsupervised in nature, for breastfeeding, for working alongside adults to earn a living, for working as if they were adults to contribute to the family finances, for carrying children in rebozos or seeming too emotionally attached to their children for the taste of the dominant culture. 
Instances when they were devalued, mocked and even marginalized for having a deep emotional connection to family and community, for being innate and informal life long learners, for the deep generational emotional connections formed while learning. For solving conflicts among family circles of equal power, regardless of age. For learning as a vehicle for mere survival. 
It finally hit me. Calling ourselves unschoolers is no way to honor that journey and all those sacrifices. Because it does not give our family the credit it is due.
Because now that our ancestral ways of carrying children with prohibitively expensive "baby wraps", breastfeeding, attachment parenting, non violent communication and self-directed learning is all too fashionable, especially for relatively affluent women from the dominant culture...credit is not generally given where it is due and when it is, it is talked about as a thing of the past, something we no longer do in the present day.
I'm here to tell you, we very much do, otherwise I would not have been able to innately find it among the remains of my family's culture and customs.We are indeed unschoolers no more. If we continue to call ourselves unschoolers, we are contributing to our own cycle of oppression, by erasing the merits of an entire culture and not acknowledging where that knowledge comes from and the sacrifices it took to preserve it.  The next time another Mom from the dominant culture approaches me wanting to learn about the ways in which we "unschool"... I will proudly correct her and say..."We are not unschoolers. We are ancestral schoolers. What do you want to know? I will gladly share"

The Story of my Japanese-Mexican Cousins

There are several of these restaurants around the city of Ensenada. They sell Japanese and Korean food and are favorites in the community, as several branches of all three chains have sprouted around the city and beyond.
Whenever I see their damaging stereotypical imagery and the offensive play on words of two of them (not lost to those who speak Spanish), it bothers me. Specially because the graphics are kid friendly and get my child's attention. I don't want her to carry on the bad habit many of us Mexicans have perpetuated since colonial times, when the Spanish and Portuguese slave traders used to lump all slaves they brought from Asian countries together and call them all "Chinos" meaning Chinese or "Indios Chinos" to lower their racial status by calling them "Indian" along with "Chinese." This labeling caused entire generations of Mexicans to grow up calling people from most Asian countries "Chinos," regardless of their country of origin.
The presence of these restaurants increased our curiosity. The name of one of the chains, "La Cochinita," even mislead the husband into thinking they sold Chinese food. Talk about internalized oppression!  Also when my daughter and I were researching the history of the famous Baja Fish Tacos, we realized the fish preparation for them, consists of tempura battered fish. All this culinary heritage and presence here in the region lead us to do some research.
Turns out back in the 1920's when many immigrants arrived in the city of Ensenada, including my Italian Grandfather, many immigrants arrived from Japan as well. Some came as skilled guest workers and became well loved and respected for their skills as engineers and doctors, others as additional labor for the fishing docks and many undocumented, awaiting entry into the U.S. For what I read, at some point there were as many 1500 of them, in a city of 5000. What happened? Where are they? Us the descendants of Italian, Russian and French immigrants are still here. Where did they go? I asked my Mom if she remembers growing up around Japanese immigrants, as she remembers growing up around many others. What I uncovered was surprising...she said "I remember my cousins and my uncle Mr. Morishita, he was my cousin's father and was married to my Mom's cousin."
Turns out after Pearl Harbor, the Morishita side of our family wasn't allowed to live near the coast or so close to the U.S. Border because our northern neighbor considered them a threat to United States security. The United States asked México to turn them in, to be put in Alta California's interment camps. The Mexican Government refused but was still pressured into removing and holding them in México City and Guadalajara instead. They were given ten days and no relocation assistance to move down south with all their Japanese descendants and Mexican spouses. Including our Aunt and Uncle and their half Japanese half, Mexican children. Their property and business were ceased by the government.
My Italian Grandfather and the rest of his friends were fearful of suffering the same faith but they were spared, (white privilege, I wonder?) What my Mother does remember is that all official teaching of Italian in her household stoped after that and my Grandpa started calling himself by the Spanish translation of his name "Juan" and changed the ending of his last name to sound more Mexican.
Only four Japanese families returned to Ensenada after the war was over. Some are the owners of these restaurants, some own a winery at the local wine country and some like our family members have blended in as much as possible still carrying on their Japanese name and physical traits.
My Mom remembers a conversation with her interned cousin upon her return. She asked how she liked México City? Turns out not so much, since she lacked the freedom to play in nature like my Mom. She had been looked in an apartment complex the whole time

La Sobadora

Chances are, regardless of lineage and social class, a Mexican family will have a sobadora or sobador they blindly trust and use in conjunction with the advice of their Western trained family doctor.

Although some, might be embarrassed to admit they have one. Which might be a residue from our days as colonized people, when our traditional healers were punished and or ostracized alongside their patients for practicing their craft. To call a sobador or sobadora by their English translated name, which would literally mean "masseur or masseuse" depending on their gender, would be an understatement. They represent so much more. These "alternative healers" are spiritual and mental counselors, friends, coaches, dietitians, herbalist, chiropractors and much more.

Many of the legitimate ones, preserve our people's generational healing wisdom. Today, I took my Mom to see her trusted Sobadora, who works in conjunction with her "regular" doctor to keep her healthy, lively and energetic. After our visit, she sent us over to the herb store. I wish I could describe the scent inside, it is intoxicating and delicious.
In the store, one can find a mixture of beliefs, realities and dreams alongside very practical tangible items. #mestizoculture #healinghands #healingherbs #guardiansofourtresures

Our Family's Favorite Evergreen Oak

Today, after taking my Mom to run some errands around Ensenada, we stopped to visit her favorite tree.
This evergreen oak, is my Mom's old childhood friend. We estimate it must be around 100 plus years old, since my Mom is 81 and the tree was already fully grown by the time she was a toddler.
It seats on a river's edge, which now happens to run in the middle of the city but, back in the day, it stood on the edge of town. In a ranch that was part of the city's old Italian settlement, of which my Grandparents where the center. They hosted the whole colony at their home, almost everyday for lunch and then gathered there on weekends for communal fun. The fun included singing, cookouts and wine making. The tree was the stage of many childhood adventures and teenage romances for my Mom, her siblings and many childhood friends. We were happy it is still standing. Still evergreen, as if protected by the magical energy produced by all the joy it once gave others. #avenidamiramaryambar

Flour Tortillas

Tortillas de Harina are a Baja California specialty. In the past, they were preferred by most in the region over the ones made with corn, customary in the south and center of México. The original recipe contains lard and salt which makes them addictive and delicious. Making flour tortillas is harder. Still, some Mexican women in the region continue to excel at this art.
For example, my Mom's neighbor Dr. R, who is a trained medical doctor and expert flour tortilla maker. She supplements her income by selling them, but generously brings some over to my Mom whenever she makes a batch. Giving a whole new meaning to the phrase..."Love thy neighbor." #morningdeliciousness #theyarestillwarm #whathaveidonetodeservethis

Ensenada's Fruterías

I keep meaning to tell you about Ensenada's fruterías. If you keep your eyes open, you will spot them in unexpected parts of the city and surrounding areas. Set in improvised settings, central to a neighborhood, where working folk can drive by and stop for a quick shopping trip or locals with few transportation options can walk to. They usually sprout on improvised spots. Such as this one, made of wood and wire or more simple ones like the ones on busy intersections set on the back of a truck, covered with an improvised tarp.

Some are more elaborate with brick and mortar walls, generally because someone converted their garage or another room of their house into a store.
In a region that exports most of their more visually appealing produce to the U.S. and local supermarket chains keep the least attractive ones. Fruterías are a salvation, not only because one can find fresh produce by local farmers, but also because dinner, household staples and locally prepared preserves can be found, along with remedies, local news and community bonding opportunities.
The most precious part of the fruterías, are the coolers carefully labeled with the name of ones' favorite neighborhood flour tortilla maker. Delicious!!! These are usually very safe to consume, since your neighbor lady is interested in keeping up her reputation as the best tortilla maker in the neighborhood. If you come to Ensenada please stop at the nearest frutería and help these businesses keep going.

They are of great service to the community and a great source of income for entire families. Usually in the mornings during school hours, the store will be managed by a Mother or Grandmother in the company of a few toddlers and or preschoolers. Only to be replaced by a teenager in the afternoons and usually an adult man after dark.

The Californias- My Family's Earthly Womb

Sometimes I look around and the realization hits me. The Californias, mythical lands of paradise (as their name implies), were here before us and will be here after us.
We only get to be in them for a little while and are responsible for what becomes of them during our stay. We must guard and enjoy this ocean, these hills, these rocks, these vegetation and all human and non human animals that inhabit it. As this section of the planet, is part of who our family is as people. Our essence. This segment of the earth, called California, either Baja or Alta, from Mulegé to San Francisco...has been like a warm earthly womb to many members of our clan. Protecting us, feeding us and granting us room to grow.
Even before and after the region was changed, separated and divided by politics... our nomadic family ways, of interchanging our lives between north and south, have continued. Just like the rivers, the wind and the ocean currents have continued to flow as much as they can despite man generated obstacles. The Californias have protected and cradled, at least seven generations of our family. Seeing us thru, from follicles in our Mother's wombs, to dust, in the warm womb of the earth.
As I walked these hills in the company of my daughter, niece and sister in law this afternoon, I could mentally track our connection to this long region of my Mother Earth by thinking of the many Mothers-Women that link my daughter and niece to the region. Eight generations in total that we know of. The connection to this land I felt today, gave me the sense of belonging and inner peace I needed, as I try to raise a child in the currently inhospitable racial and political climate. Next time someone on either side of the border, dares to question our presence in the region, it will be way easier to dismiss it and remain calm, as I remind myself these rocks and hills have been our friends and playmates long before all this foolishness started.

On the Trust of the Mexican Street Vendors

One of the many things I miss while living in the U.S. is the delicious Mexican street food, a large portion of the informal Mexican economy and a livelihood for many families. Street vendors here in Ensenada and México in general do their best to keep the locals in their service area coming back for more. To do this, they not only try their best to serve the most delicious and affordable food in their area, but also take care of making sure nobody gets sick. One ill neighborhood customer and the family business is done for.
Other weapons on their customer retention arsenal include, instant camaraderie and friendship, humor and most importantly trust. After being away from the country a while, when I first got here at the beginning of the month, I had forgotten the cultural norms. Initially, I tried to follow the U.S. etiquette, by attempting to pay for my order as soon as I placed it. Before eating it. One vendor lady kindly reminded me "Honey, how can you pay me, you haven't eaten yet?"
After a month here, I have noticed, no matter how busy a food stand gets, the local etiquette remains the same. When one is done eating, one walks up to the vendor, list what was consumed and pays accordingly. All based on trust. Sometimes the distance makes me forget how beautiful my people are. From now on, I won't.

Alta California's Recycling Bin

As I explore Ensenada's neighborhoods or just plainly go about my business in the city, I wonder...Do my friends and family in the United States know what happens to their old stuff?
While in the U.S., I often take part in conversations or see proud social media updates by friends, sharing how happy they are to finally be rid of household clutter.

Sometimes such updates include shocking before and after pictures and a proud statement containing personal reflections about consumerism, self improvement, thoughts on the environment or just the peaceful weightless feeling of having unloaded poor purchasing choices. I admit, I'm guilty of such statements and actions too. However, as I look around here and see an informal micro local economy sprouting and being sustained by our old stuff... I have concerns. First let me tell you, I know these things were ours because, I can tell the majority of the things being sold second hand here, are hard to find at local stores.

Also, because as I walk around inside or outside the "Segundas" (as the second hand stores are called here) I see sings such as..."shipments arrive from the other side on Friday" ("other side" means the U.S. BTW) I also see large pick ups trucks with U.S. California plates doing the transporting.
These "Segundas," are a major part of the local informal economy. Some people run them after their regular work hours, out of their garage or on the sidewalk at busy intersections.
On the bright side, part of me is glad they provide an exchange opportunity and chances for this still very usable items to be reused. These objects are also helping create jobs and producing a source of affordable household items and clothing for those who don’t have much money to spend.
Entire neighborhoods in the city are dedicated to side by side "segundas" and also informal stands pop up here and there where least expected.
In middle class areas of the city, one can also find "Saldos" stores, specializing in the sale of overstock products from popular chain stores in the U.S.

One of the many things that concern me about the sale of these items, is the lack of local disposal infrastructure once these items have lived their second or third life. I also ponder and repine over the fact such large amount of items exist in the first place. What are we doing? Do we really need to make or buy all those things in the first place? Just some random questions, I currently don't have an answer for...

Tijuana Refugee Story

An uplifting real life refugee story from this morning.
I'm not sure if you know, but many Haitian refugees have been stuck in TJ for more than a year now, awaiting entry into the U.S.
Usually, when I travel thru here, I see them in their camp which resembles skid row in Los Ángeles. Today as I walked down the street, I saw this man dressed in what appeared to be a law enforcement uniform. At first glance my mind was puzzled, the color of his skin confused me for a minute as he did not resemble the average Afro-Mexican men I'm used to seeing, he was carrying a stop sign and in the confusion I thought he might have been a U.S. Cop walking around in the heart of TJ for some odd reason...and then, as he started directing traffic into a parking lot with a huge smile on his face, his accent helped me realize he was a refugee. He looked very proud to have a job.