Beneath the city of Mexico, above the drained Lake Texcoco, A young Mexican man asks for the time. Joyce and I wait for the Metro that would take us to a Teotihuacán-bound bus.
The ruins of Teotihuacán. “Birthplace of the gods.” The name comes from Nahuatl-speaking Aztecs centuries after the city’s abandonment. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teotihuacan)
The young man speaks clear English. I round my answer to “10:45” and avoid further conversation. He continues, “Where are you from.” “The States…” a pause. “Where in the states?” “Nebraska…” another pause.
Ink peaks from the starched collar of his bright blue polo. A faded blue tattoo traces his neck. A wide moustache rests carefully manicured above his upper lip. He continues to speak. Metal fillings twinkle in his molars.
Originally from Veracruz, Mex., he lived in Phoenix, Ariz. for the past five years. He just moved back to Mexico when he was deported. “I want to go back,” he says of the States.
People crowd on and off the train at each stop. New passengers blend with the old.
At one stop, Mariachi music blasts from someone's backpack. Songs blip past. “Diez pesos, diez pesos” the salesman chants between songs. He navigates the crowded railcar and squeezes off on the next stop.
“How did you learn English,” I ask.
“Talking with my friends,”
Another stop. Another salesperson appears dragging her daughter behind. The mother-daughter pair sells felt-tip pens and little noisemakers. They pass also.
I wish I had more time to speak with the young man, but the train slows for our stop. I say bye, and we head to a different train going to the bus terminal.
Soon, we board the Teotihuacán-bound bus. Itdrives along roads lined with a never-ending supply of food stalls. Street food supplants American fast food. Men and women line the roads for lunch.
The bus turns onto a toll-road reminiscent of an American interstate. A concrete barrier separates the road from Mexico’s urban sprawl. Bright advertisements, spray-painted like graffiti, become subtitles beneath half-built boxes/homes. Residential construction plasters distant hills in geometric diaspora.
We pass through the dusty valley. After an hour or so, we arrive at the gates of Teotihuacán. The ruins provided Moctezuma and the Aztecs a reminder of civilization’s mortality. Long before Moctezuma was captured and his people were enslaved, the streets of Teotihuacán lay mysteriously abandoned.
Inside the park, we walk to the pyramids on the Avenue of the Dead. We pass rows of men selling tourist t-shirts, sculpted objects, jewelry, bow and arrows. We wander the grounds of the once-great city.
Vendors approach tourists one-by-one, minute-by-minute. They chant sales pitches. I respond with a chant of “no gracias, no gracias.”
Tourists lounge atop the Pyramid of the Sun, the second largest pyramid in the New World. They sunbathe and snap photos of one another at the center of this unknown culture’s universe. A few, who look like locals, raise their hands in each direction in apparent worship. They bow to the ground. Tourists take photos of them, too.
Tiny men at the base of the pyramid continue to approach tourists. The economic life cycle continues.
I become aware of the United States comparative youth, a 200-year-old transplant. With Mexico’s rich indigenous traditions, swirled with Spanish influences, modern Mexico navigates a cultural surplus. In contrast, the United States is a county still cementing its culture.
Mexicans who move to the United States (like the man-in-blue from the subway) gain not only a piece of the United States’ standard of living, they gain a voice in the nation's emerging culture. For many Americans, such immigrants are considered the central problem facing the nation.
Anyone who utilizes hospitals, low-income benefits, etc. without contributing to the economy hurts that economy. But the “problem” of illegal immigration is not so simple. Illegal immigrants contribute billions to social security, which the immigrants will never claim. They offer massive profits to U.S. businessmen, which is then taxed by the government.
The real issue, I think, is not financial. The “problem” is a dilution of “American voice.” Many Americans are afraid of losing their identity (or their children’s identity) to a foreign culture. But considering the proximity of the two countries (and the ongoing influx of Mexican peoples in the U.S.) isn’t a blending of culture bound to happen anyway? Isn’t it just a matter of time?
The answer is buried in statistics and opinion – intangible things.
Here in Teotihuacán, the rich history of Mexico becomes something tangible (good or bad). It is sold in the “authentic crafts” and “hand-made trinkets” through which American tourists may live vicariously. The trinkets may offer proof of contact with the ancient ruins of America.
Tiny men become life-size as we walk down the pyramid.
I am approached again.
One culture dies. It changes. A new culture is born.
Here, along the Avenue of the Dead, merchants peddled wares 2,000 years ago. Today, they are still peddling.
I continue to say, “No Gracias” to the salesmen. Then I hurry off, afflicted by Moctezuma’s Curse.
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