Dr. Cereal

Hilarious.
http://vimeo.com/2809991

While living abroad in Mexico, I was often revered or reviled instantly just for being a U.S. citizen.  I came to expect the snap judgments, but never really got used to them.  It started the moment I entered the country.  The first time I went through customs and got my temporary tourist visa, I asked for the maximum amount—6 months.

“Cuanto tiempo vas a estar en Mexico?” he asked me.  How long will you be in Mexico?

“I’m sorry… cuanto tiempo… umm… ah!  Seis meses.  El maximo, por favor,” I replied, struggling to spit out the words.  Clearly he could see I needed some time in the country to practice my Spanish.

He glanced at me, at my passport, then stamped my visa.

“Next!”

Just like that.  I was ecstatic.

Not until about a week later did I realized he’d only given me 5 days.

I took the cheapest bus I could find back across the US border.  I’d found a job at a small English school in downtown Monterrey, but in order to process my work visa, they needed a tourist visa with at least a month left before it expired.

There are military checkpoints along all the highways in Mexico.  Uniformed men carry automatic weapons and watch traffic from inside little shacks.  Everyone is stopped and asked where they’re coming from and where they’re going.  Sometimes they look through your vehicle, sometime they search your person and bags.  They look for drugs, weapons, money.  There are stories of them planting drugs at one checkpoint so they can be “found” at the next one, then you’re faced with either a payoff or jail time.

One such man came aboard the bus as we neared the US border.  He asked me for my visa.  I acted like I’d lost it.

“Lo siento.  No la tengo,” I said.  Sorry, I don’t have it.

“Ven conmigo,” he said sternly.

I started to walk to the front of the bus, amid stares of the other passengers.  I began to panic.  Looking out of the bus window, I saw miles of desert.  Desert, potholed highway, and a shack full of armed men.  The eyes of those around me couldn’t hide their suspicion.  What’s this guy doing here?  Buses are for poor people.  Americans are rich.

I froze at the front of the bus.

“Ven conmigo,” he repeated.

I shook my head.  I dug out my visa and showed it to him.  He told me that it was expired, that I had to get off the bus.  I stared at him a moment, fumbling with my Spanish.

“No,” I said.  “I’m leaving the country because my visa expired.  I’m leaving.  Me voy.  Ya me voy de Mexico.”  Though unarmed, I had a clear size advantage.  I decided that he was going to have to shoot me if he really wanted to get me through the door.

After returning to my seat, I didn’t move from it until we’d entered Texas.

Relieved, I went to the customs shack to get a new visa.  I would make sure to get the maximum stay on this one.

Another man was behind me in line.  The customs official took my passport and told me to wait while he took care of the other man.

When the other man had left and we were alone, I said “I need a tourist visa for six months.”

“Where is your old one?” he asked, seeing that I had come in to the country by the dated stamp on my passport.  I showed it to him.

“It’s expired.  I’m sorry, you can’t come back into Mexico.”

“Exactly, it’s expired.  So I left.  Now I’m coming back and need a new one.”  I explained to him that I had a job and I needed to get back to Monterrey, that I was a teacher, that I had an apartment and everything.

I asked him how much it cost to get it renewed.

“Cuanto tienes?”  He said.  How much do you have?

“21 dollars,” I lied.  He lied about not being able to give me a visa, after all.  Normally, a tourist visa costs 200 pesos, or about 20 dollars.

“If that’s all you have, how are you going to buy a bus ticket back?”

“Credit card.”

I left with 21 fewer dollars and a 3 month visa.

Within twenty minutes, I was back on a bus into the maw that had just gnawed me up.  We stopped at the same military checkpoint.  I had my passport and visa in hand this time, though it proved unnecessary.  A different man in uniform boarded, but didn’t bother to look at what I had, to my mix of relief and agitation—apparently you need a visa to leave the country, but not enter it.

Welcome to Mexico, I thought I heard someone say.

Not long ago while watching the play “Crossings,” here in New York, I found myself sifting back through such memories–stories of travel, new places, the thrill of uncertainty–after wondering why I was so moved by the performances of those on stage.  (”Crossings,” relates the journeys of 15 immigrants from all parts of the world who have come to live in New York City.  The script was written from interviews or the actual experiences of the actors, all immigrants themselves or first-generation children of immigrants.  The tales went from hardship to horror, interspersed with laughter and elation).

Among the cast was my friend and fellow Stop Shopping Gospel Choir singer, Mi Sun.  Among the crowd were many others from the choir, who seemed equally touched.  Francisco, an immigrant from Venezuela, smiled through his tears.

At dinner, talk of travel continued.  I looked around the room, seeing a dozen or so countries represented.  Reverend Billy mentioned the prodigal son story, saying that New York was full of those who have set off on their own to find whatever it is they need to find.  While some live more riotously than others, and while some may have demanded their inheritance and others no, what’s shared is that spark of needing to set sail and see what else is out there.  These stories, anecdotes, snippets, and epics join that grand, transient and constantly-evolving song of The Journey.  It’s a tune that’s sweet as it is dissonant because we all know—just as I knew looking around the room at the amazing people I’d so recently come to know—that before long it will have changed again, moved on somewhere else, searching, hoping, singing.

• grass is growing in my formerly barren backyard (after lots of coaxing and 480lbs of topsoil).
• Upon attending the Brooklyn Hip Hop festival last Saturday under the shadow of the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges I was moved to hear–and feel–the overwhelming message, as KRS-One put it, of “peace, love, and unity.” The music is evolving. This isn’t your daddy’s hip hop. Buckshot took care of the “put your hands in the air, and wave ‘em like you just don’t care!” and the “I’m the rappinest rapper this side o’ the Mississippi, yeah, me, me, me, me, gimme gimme” song, which seem to be unavoidable at any given show, though it surprises me to see that people are still doing it.
• Victor is moving to the ‘hood finally. (From Queens to Brooklyn).
• My attitude toward the rain has gone from annoyance at the inconvenience to gratitude for the life it brings to my plants (as well as all the others around).  I heard someone recently say that when it rains, you don’t get wet, you “feel the rain.” I don’t know if I’ve reached that point, but I can overlook the annoyance of damp britches for healthy tomatoes.
• Most of the people in my building now give me their compost. It feels great to feed the yard instead of a landfill.
• Reading: Los Detectives Salvajes by Roberto Bolaño and back issues of Harper’s. Currently “A Mind Dismembered: In Search of the Magical Penis Thieves,” an article about the phenomenon of penis dissapearance or shrinkage by means of spells or witchcraft in Nigeria. The accused is often questioned, beaten, and hanged if there is no intervention. This sort of social histeria apparently occurs in many non-western cultures, dating back as far as 300 BC.
• Listening to: Memphis Jug Band. The next song I record will have a jug instead of bass guitar.
• I’m biking 15-20 miles a day and it feels awesome.
• After 6 months of training with my martial arts instructor, I’ll be attending my first workshop with Grand Master Duncan this weekend.