Shifting Perspectives
Several mornings a week I buy fresh corn tortillas from a woman at a mercado a few blocks away. I don’t know much about her, though I hope over time to become acquainted. In the meantime I’ve created a scenario in my mind about her life: I think she’s in her mid 60’s, and as Mexican people fall in love and marry and have families very young, she could be a great-grandmother by now. I imagine her rising early every morning to prepare masa and cook tortillas, and carefully stack them into the basket from which she sells them piping hot, six tortillas for ten pesos (about 50 cents). I imagine every day she sits on her little stool on the stairway landing at the market from the time it opens until the tortillas are all sold. Yesterday this was around eleven, when I bought the last four she had. I was thrilled to get four, because something is better than nothing. Some days I buy a dozen tortillas and I feel gluttonous, and I wonder if she’s had to adjust her tortilla inventory to accommodate my cravings. As it’s often difficult for vendors to make change at the mercado, I try to come up with the correct amount for my purchases, though the tortilla lady usually has change- hers is truly a hot commodity. I imagine she is happy to produce income from her skill- which I would even consider an art- her tortillas are so uniform in size and shape and bronzing on each side, they are culinary perfection to me.
In the weeks I have been living with my family in Oaxaca de Juarez, Mexico I’ve admired the art, skill, talent, resourcefulness and work ethic of the women whose paths I’ve crossed, but I’ve also felt a bit of shame. From a young age my parents taught me to work hard and I’ve always prided myself in that ability. In the months before we came here, my husband and I worked on my family home, repairing and painting and it readying for its next phase of life. We labored hard and had sore muscles and joints at the end of long days, but the work I did could never compare to what I see women doing in this city: hauling goods- sometimes carrying huge bundles on their heads- setting up market stalls, selling wares, then packing it all up and heading home to sweep, scrub floors, and cook over pots the size of garden wheelbarrows. “Como buenas mexicanas.” I’ve watched them and wondered if I would be strong enough to build and manage a whole life here- especially without the “outside resources” I have which make buying plentiful tortillas at the market simply a matter of coming up with correct change, not straining to have money necessary to buy them, and everything else I would need.
In my early twenties, I was a missionary. The country where I served was particularly poor; multi-generational families lived tightly packed into small dwellings that would have been condemned by inspectors in most places, but at that place and time proved adequate shelter. I knew many families who were barely getting by, and women working to raise children alone while their partners were wholly or partially absent- some laboring in far cities or on cargo ships sailing the world, some struggling with addiction. This was an old-world culture, where everyday clothing was more formal than casual, where even people with limited means took care with their attire and grooming. Women wore custom-tailored pencil skirts hemmed at the knee, showing off- though certainly not by intention- beautiful toned, tanned legs. Legs they earned through work-filled lives similar to those I see here. Legs other “more fortunate” women pay money for gym memberships and trainers to help develop, then pay to have waxed and tanned- one tiny part of the indulgent practice of self-care.
Self-care. Now, here’s a phrase that makes me uncomfortable. Do any of you share that feeling? When I use the words, I mostly say them in jest. And while I do participate in self-care, I can’t bring myself to admit that making an indulgent purchase, doing my nails, or taking a nap is imperative for my well-being, let alone an entitlement. Entitlement can make rituals that are positive for one’s psyche become needs and then demands, and I don’t think anyone’s life is better off that way. On the flip side, I don’t want to live as a martyr, only looking after my family and community and never myself. I understand the example of the oxygen mask that needs put on first, and the bucket that must remain filled or there will be nothing to give and share with others. If anyone needs reminders that it’s okay to feel pampered and indulged, it’s women (in particular, mothers).
But what about our sisters throughout the world? Many of them don’t have the luxury of indulging in self-care or even thinking about it. In Oaxaca there are “beauty” and nail salons, but when I’ve peeked inside I’ve mostly seen men getting haircuts and the nail salons are all empty. The ladies in Oaxaca don’t seem to have a single second of “me time.” They don’t seem to carry planners to mark appointments for getting treatments, they don’t seem to be taking yoga- the posters I see around town for classes are all written in English. The daily lives of women here are filled with the work of surviving- making enough money to buy the next bag of corn meal to make the next batch or tortillas, to save a few pesos for the propane that heats their comals to cook their tortillas. Do they feel hurried and unkempt? I don’t know, but they look tranquil and very pulled together. Are they wallowing in misery? I’m not sure, but their eyes seem to smile as we pass on the street, exchanging masked greetings that are partial mysteries. Burdens weighing emotionally or literally on their shoulders may be left at home when they head out to the work of their days, and may stay completely hidden even within their own walls. They rely heavily on faith, which is witnessed everywhere but the most endearing example I’ve seen was when I bought my son a lollipop from a basket of goodies a tiny women was selling on the street. She held the four pesos I paid her in her hand while quietly murmuring and making the sign of the cross above her basket. A friend who has lived here a long time later explained it was a prayer of thanks and imploring for more good fortune to come her way.
The only perspective any of us have is our own, and I feel my perspective shifting a lot here. I hope by the end of my stay I will be whining less, digging in more, and allowing the examples of Oaxacan women to inspire, through their graceful way of living. I don’t want to exist thinking I need self-care (and eventually that I can’t survive without it- it might be a slippery slope from being kind to myself to becoming a diva 😅). I’d rather my bucket be filled through a rhythm of life meeting purpose with creativity, meeting compassion with passion. And when I’m fortunate, a few warm tortillas in my tummy.
