You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

MEXICO CITY COLLEGE

Submerged in a sea of hushed conversations in Spanish, I drifted off to sleep on my cot in the crowded hotel courtyard. The port of Vericruze had been closed for Marti gras this morning when I went there in hope of finding work on a freighter. It now seemed naive to think I could find a job there. Anyway, the prospect of working on a ship no longer seemed so desirable. Winter term would be starting back at University of Oregon. I missed the academic life and was envious of the students on the bus from Juarez who were returning for Winter term at Mexico City College located in the forested mountains remote from the frenetic city.

In the morning I left Vericruz on a bus back to Mexico City. Once there, I phoned one of the students that I had met on the trip from Juarez. We agreed to meet at the college the following day.

It was the start of Winter term 1961. It was enjoyable being in the sunny scenic campus. It felt good to be back in an English speaking academic setting, with students form many foreign cultures. I wanted this to be more than a one day visit. So I decided to emerse my self in Mexican culture by enrolling in two Spanish Language courses, one in Mexican Cultural Anthropology, and a course in Mexican art history. I also attended as short required course which taught us Gringos how to behave while living in Mexico. The college had a housing office. Through it I found a room and board accommodation in a home in Mexico City. For the following three months I took a second class bus, affectionately known as the “Toluca Rocket”, up the winding mountain road to Mexico City College. In addition to shoppers going to the market town of Toluca, the Rocket carried merchants and their wares including: vegetables, chickens, goats, and an occasional pig.

There were several memorable experiences, during those three months in Mexico, living in an unfamiliar culture. Unmportant events at the time, have enriched my understanding of what is is to live on this planet among other human beings.

One important lesson taken from the class that focused on getting along in Mexico, was a warning against seeing the Mexican culture as being a distortion of what we knew in the US. For example, don’t attempting to “spangleize” English phrases. The example given was of a Gringa who wished to exit from the back of a bus in Mexico City. When she said “Excuse me” no one in the crowded aisle moved. So she spangled her request and loudly said “ESCUSATO!”. She was surprised to see that the people quickly stepped back and let her pass. Later, she proudly told a Mexican friend about her ability get along with out speaking Spanish. She only needed to modify English into Spanish. To illustrate her contention she described her experience on the bus. When her friend quit laughing he told her that “escusato” in Spanish means “I urgently need a toilet.”

The experience of renting a room in the home of Seniora Gomez was memorable because it gave me an opportunity learn about the lives of her two criadas. Criadas are essentially child slaves, sold by their families, for payment of a meager wage. I have written separately about these two native indian children, Petra (11) and Chrisanta (8) who lived in the dingy courtyard of the Gomez home.

Another profound experience was a day trip, by bus, to Acapulco where I spent a very pleasant day wandering around that city’s beach front. Before boarding the bus back to Mexico City I bought a blended fresh fruit drink from a vendor on the street. It was delicious and refreshing. By the time I reached home I was so violently ill with diarrhoea and vomiting that I was close to passing out. When, finally, I could get away from the toilet, I stumbled to my bed drank several gulps of the tincture of opium,which my dad had given me, and fell asleep not knowing, or caring, if I would ever wake. I did wake up in the morning, feeling weak but no longer ill. Petra and Chrissanta prepared me a breakfast of coffee, huevos revueltos e tortillas. After eating the breakfast, which they prepared, I felt fine.

Seeing Maria again was memorable. She was the law student who was on the bus trip from Juarez. It was great to visit with her, however our meeting was strained. We met in accordance with Mexican middle class mores. She could not go out for dinner, as I had hoped. We couldn’t meet for lunch or even for coffee. When I asked “How then will it be possible for us to meet, she said, “You may come to my home, but only when my sister or a parent are present.“

Another very memorable event took place while on a college sponsored bus trip to Monte Alban in Oaxaca. Seeing the Zapotec ruins was interesting, but at that time they were nothing more than mounds at either end of a flat field of weeds. The thing which made this trip to Oaxaca so memorable was Hilda.

Hilda was from Heidelberg. She was among the students who took trip to Oaxaca. She and I never met. The only time I saw her was at dinner in a cantina. Yet I will never forget her, and the moment of her breakdown. I had joined other student in a cantina for dinner. Hilda was sitting at a table with three of her girl friends. I was sitting at the adjoining table with other students. Hilda was extremely distraught. She was talking through sobs, saying. “He is such a nice boy…He’s Jewish. She repeated these two statements several times. Then she sobbed “My father was an SS officer.“ she paused then said “How could he have done that to such nice people?”. Afterward, she put her head down on her arms, and cried uncontrollably.

I have thought about this scene many times since then and asked mysef “Is this how the Germans of the Third Reich pay for their blind following of the Nazi leadership?” “Is it their children who pay with the realization of what their parents had done.” For years I have wanted to ask a German, who had lived through the war, how was it that the German people could have stood by while their country slid into such extreme policies, the extermination Jews and Romanos, and waging a devastating war across Europe.

It was not a unique event. I see it happening now with Russia’s unprovoked attack on Ukraine and the devastating Israeli retaliation on Gaza for the brutal attack by Hamas. I no longer need to ask Germans how it happened. I can see it happening here in the USA with half the population following Donald Trump, who they see as a savior. And half seeing him as a mendacious, vindictive, narcissist. The conclusion, which I draw, is that it was not the Germans. It was not the people of the Italy, Japan, or Russia. Nor is it our own countrymen. Rather it is a flaw in working of the human mind. It is a serious source of fallacious thinking, which if not overcome, will eventually result in the annihilation of civilization.