Spanish Satire

Wait. What’s Menudo? I wondered ignorantly as I sat down to a plastic cafeteria table surrounded by eager children and remnants of dilapidated piñatas unceremoniously wilting on the sides of the grimy walls. The kids were all speaking Spanish faster than a speeding bullet, which, in Guadalupe, Mexico, was not uncommon. The bullets, not just the Spanish. I turned to the orphanage director’s son.

“Hey, what’s Menudo?”

Oh, it’s tripe soup. It’s pretty good if you wash the intestines a couple times through.”

I gulped. This was clearly not a good start to my family’s first night as permanent staff members at Rancho 3M Orphanage in Guadalupe, Mexico. I had found myself sitting in this cinderblock structure (the only blonde-hair, blue eyed girl for a solid 200 miles) on account of my parents. They had not just decided to merely move our entire family away from our hometown, but they had decided that as a family unit, we would trade our cushy, country club lifestyle to work in an impoverished area of Mexico, caring for children who had been abandoned. We all yearned to provide for them a hope and a future: a chance for an education. To be more than just street smart. To have their existence mean more than knowing which gang is better to commit their life to. My family desired for them to be book smart.

Though I agreed with and respected my parent’s noble decision, driving past bullet-ridden, burned out buildings that were a result of the incessant war between rivaling drug cartels deeply affected me.

For the first time in my 13 years on earth, I was genuinely frightened for my life. In addition to this burden of anxiety, I experienced a rough case of culture shock. Not only was I in the middle of the desert, but I had to connect with children who had experienced life on a completely different level: many were homeless, repeatedly beaten, fed dog food on account of extreme poverty. One young orphaned boy was even sold as a sex slave by his

aunt.

Hearing these stories led me to a realization: I am sheltered. Not in a worldly, pop culture way, but in a life way. I had never experienced hardship like the children around me, which made my own fear and egotism seem trivial. My desire was fueled to serve those who were never allowed to even dream of the privileges I had been afforded in the culture I was accustomed to, even those so essential as a loving family.

I earnestly set to work. My family started out with small, menial tasks. Every Tuesday night we made bologna sandwiches and served them for dinner. My parents, brother, sister, and I all formed an assembly line; each person lining up their assigned sandwich component on the metal preparation table like attentive soldiers. Making sandwiches was fun, of course, but the best part was serving the kids as they walked through the food line. A sense of communion and bonding occurs when people eat food together. The laughter and friendships that resulted from sharing those humble sandwiches radiated an almost magical aura: a feeling of peace and warmth that resonated throughout the cinderblock cafeteria. THAT was more precious than the world’s best caviar.

Eventually, my family took on larger tasks- we planned monthly birthday parties. A novel idea to be sure, yet a lesson we all quickly learned was that Mexican birthday parties are very different from American parties. The first party that we threw was a January “Winter Wonderland” party. In the middle of the desert. Yikes.

Initially, my mother was so excited to make a big batch of her famous chili for everyone. “Chili can stretch really easily, so this will be a great dish to feed 60 people!” She crowed with anticipation.

The only quandary was that as soon as the first wave of people went through the buffet line, they immediately poured the chili over tortilla chips, unceremoniously slapping globs of salsa and liquefied velveeta atop it. In my mother’s eyes, this rendered her all-organic, gourmet chili inedible. “No, no, no! That’s not how you do it!” I scrambled to try to help them understand the significance of this special chili that meant so much to me. Yet suddenly, I stopped, frozen with embarrassment. It was at that moment I realized: who was I to tell them how to eat chili? Their way is as good as my way. I had to laugh at myself: it’s just chili. As long as they are happy, I am happy. I gleefully returned to serving not chili, but the newly born “nachili”. Which is a whole lot more fun to say than just plain old “chili”.

In the coming years, I would work just about any job on the compound. From scrubbing bathrooms for incoming American mission teams, to braiding the young girl’s silky, coal-black hair, to even organizing a Christmas supply drive that handed out care packages to the members in the surrounding community.

Through the difficult cultural adjustments, I’ve realized that the hardest, most challenging times in a person’s life have the potential to result in significant personal growth. It is my conviction that while my three years living and working at Rancho 3M was the toughest time of my life, it was also an experience that I wouldn’t give up for the world. It has left me with a sense of compassion for others, improved my cleaning and maintenance skills, and cultivated my diligence and resiliency.

Although it took a few years to adjust to living in a foreign culture, it left me with a lasting perspective of the world outside of my hometown in North Carolina. It has also left me with some practical tips: cleaning products are a LOT harder to read in your second language than in your first. If you urinate on a tarantula, it will eventually die. Always shake the bed sheets before you go to sleep, lest a scorpion made a nest. Bring the Mexican border guards donuts; they might lower their bribes the next time you cross. And, most importantly: the only culture that you know is not the only culture the world knows.