Defense

Someone recently commented on a Facebook post of mine saying that it's too bad I act like my life in Juarez is an adventure or a movie of the week. Said that I have a safety net in that I can always come back to the US and that no matter what happens I will be safe. They also said that I will never know what it means to live in an oppressed and murderous country. I wonder how long one has to live in an oppressed murderous country to know what it's like to live in an oppressed murderous country?

Like I told this reader, I've woken up to dead bodies on the sidewalk in front of my home. Lost one of our closest family friends to gang violence in Parral. Seen a man shot dead in the chest on the corner by my best friend's apartment. Had to listen to my husband fearfully recall what happened when he was jumped in El Centro for taking a picture of the cathedral. Comfort a close friend after she was forced to listen to a family be murdered in the house behind hers. Listen to our neighbor cry with agony when they found her kidnapped daughters head in a field a mile down the road. And so on and so on. But I choose to look at the good in life, and not dwell on the violence and homicides. I choose to write my blog about the positive aspects of life in Juarez because there's already enough people out there talking about the negatives. Not to mention, laughter is my survival mechanism. Also, I'm well aware that I am beyond blessed to be a US citizen and be able to reap all the benefits that it entails, but if I used the US as my safety net, I wouldn't have left it in the first place. Living apart from my husband is not an option for me.

This discussion was followed by another person saying they agreed with the original comment, and adding a whole new slew of opinions. I was told that his Mexican family members thought my blog was a joke and that my posts are insulting. That I only tell one side of the story and that I make my husband look like a fool and it's an insult to all Mexican men. He didn't forget to put a little cherry on top at the end by saying that my husband "only survives because of the graces of the Super Heroic White Woman," and that Mexican women find my blog infuriating.

Well.

I'd direct you back to my Facebook page to witness the plane crash, but some of the comments have been deleted by their authors. I found these comments puzzling, and the second quite offensive. It made me feel as though some people who are reading this blog may be getting the wrong impression. These aren't the first people to give me their opinions or call me out on my blog. And up until now, I didn't mind the criticism. People have told me that I have horrible writing technique. I've been told that I swear too much. I drink too much. I'm a horrible person because my son doesn't live with me. My writing doesn't flow. I should talk more about this. I should talk more about that. Those emails come in on the regular and I don't really let them bother me. However, the idea that I am somehow insulting all of Latin America is something I can't just sit back and shake my head about. I have to defend myself. Actually, I haven't felt so defensive since I wrote 25 Things I Love About My Ham Sandwich.

I'm not really sure where to start in my response to all of this, so I guess I'll start with the statement that I "only tell one side of the story." I know I speak highly of Juarez while the press and cartels tear it shreds. But let's be real. Would me talking about all the gory details day in and day out change anything or benefit anyone? Is there a lack of bad news about Mexico? Would I be shedding light on a situation that no one knows about? There is a reason why I don't share all of the bad things that we've encountered since we moved to Juarez. I have blogged a bit about it here and there, however, my aim has never been to do some sort of expose on the (once) murder capital of the world. If you are looking for something along those lines, go check out Charles Bowden or Judith Torrea. I respect and admire their work, but quite frankly, that's not the story I'm trying to tell.

What I am doing, in case it hasn't been made clear, is trying to survive in my own way. This blog isn't about Juarez. It's not about the drug war or NAFTA or the missing women. It's about love and personal growth and patience and assimilation and appreciation. It should also be said that I am not a spokesperson for Juarez. My life does not represent the life of a typical Juarense. I do not represent Juarez. I am just Emily.

With that being said, I think someone can live in Juarez and not really know what it's like for most of the people here. And maybe that's where I am misunderstood. It's no secret that there are wealthy people in this city, who live in their fresa-Pronaf-club-bubble, and have no clue how the rest of the city suffers. But even that is far fetched because in this drug war, there really are no safe zones. You could live in Campestre or you could live in Anapra, but just a couple short years ago, neither group was safe from the bloodshed. Even united by violence, the city is still divided by social classes. And because of that, and my middle class American upbringing, it would be impossible for me to represent either group. Of course I will never know what it is like to be born outside of the US and to have so many unmet needs, but does that automatically make me entitled or unaware of the bigger picture in life?

Too bad I act as if this is an adventure, a movie of the week.

Yeah that is too bad, isn't it? If only I ran around crying all day and talking about all the tragedies in this country, things would be better. Give me a break. Sometimes I feel like people would prefer me to run around wailing about how horrible life is in Juarez and how I have been dealt a bad hand because I somehow ended up in this "shit hole."  I can't figure out what that would accomplish, but so many people seem to think that's the way I should act. I can't wrap my head around that.

I also can't wrap my head around the fact that people seem to think I've saved my husband or done him some huge favor by marrying him. Heroic white woman? What the fuck? I'd like to think that these people don't actually read my blog. I'd like to think that anyone who has read all the blogs I've written about my husband wouldn't be capable of making such an asinine, flippant remarks. I'd really like to think that. For anyone who hasn't stumbled upon those blogs, let me say it again. Hopefully everyone hears me this time.

"I didn't settle for anyone. My husband is the man of my dreams and I don't deserve him. Even if you considered every good thing I've ever done in my lifetime and ignored the horrible, selfish and inexplicable things, the math just doesn't add up. I am difficult, emotional and overly passionate about irrelevant subjects. I fly off the handle without reason. I drink too much. I have a multi-colored past and am disgustingly indulgent. I am an obsessive addict. Even though I came from a middle class American family, I'm a spoiled brat. Maybe that's because I came from a middle class American family? I have a short temper and am beyond demanding. I'm an uptight, impatient, over-analytical hypocrite. And somehow, regardless of all of that, Mr. Cruz loves me. He adores me. He is proud of me and thoroughly enjoys me as a person. My husband didn't "luck out" to meet me. I am a better person because he has come into my life. For some reason, God put him in my path. This has nothing to do with green cards or money or citizenship. The price of me is much too high for abusers because I am 3 gallons of crazy in a 2 gallon bucket my friends. I'm the lucky one. I'm the one who is hard to love..."

Yet again, as frustrating as those flippant remarks about Ray were, I was most offended by the comment that I insult Latinos and that my blog angers Mexican women. That's really the main reason I felt compelled to write this blog today and address the comments at all. I'm not going to lie, this has consumed my mind all week. I spent far too much time digging through my blog archives and posts on Facebook and Twitter trying to figure out how I had managed to upset an entire race of people. I asked the gentleman twice if he could tell me how exactly this blog infuriates Mexican women but he did not respond. I guess the idea that I was offending an entire group of people that I just spent the last 3 years falling in love with just hit me a little hard. No, really hard.

I think I'm pretty tough when it comes to criticism because I have a lot of defects and I know it. But this was just too much for me. I've been trying to superarlo for most of the week and I think I'm almost there. Some wise words from my Mexican and Mexican-American friends helped immensely and a random email from a first generation Chicana reader who told me she was hooked to my blog and gave me her prayers and support certainly helped as well. So I want to thank those people for their assurance and comforting words. It meant a lot to me.

I guess at the end of the day, we all have to remember that the Internet has this really cool feature you can use if you don't like what you're reading. It's that little X in the upper right hand corner. All you have to do is drag your cursor over that bad boy and click. Magia!

I Mispronounced Inundación 428 Times This Week

I used to love the rain. Absolutely loved it. Having lived a large portion of my life in Central Arizona, rain was a rarity and something I always looked forward to. However, after getting in a car accident last year in the middle of a storm when I was only driving 30 mph, I am now ridiculously afraid of driving in the rain. Yeah, I'm the asshole doing 40 on the freeway while it's sprinkling.

On Thursday morning I broke down in the car while trying to navigate through the rain as we drove up Hermanos Escobar on our way to work. I was in tears, I couldn't breathe, I had to pull over. It scared the crap out of Gordo, that's for sure. It was the panic attack to end all panic attacks. Our windshield wipers don't work properly, nor do our headlights (only the high beams work) so I think that added to it all. Combining my driving anxiety with car problems while simultaneously trying not to drive into a sinkhole in the dark when it was pouring rain created the perfect storm. Pun intended.

Juarez obviously isn't known for it's rainfall; I think we only average a couple of inches a month during monsoon season. Although other areas get much more rain, the city just isn't equipped for that much water. The few storm drains and reservoirs that exist quickly overflowed into the streets and parks and unfortunately homes and businesses.

To get an idea of what it was like this week in Juarez, check out this video by Marco Antonio Retana.

Driving through flood waters is the scariest experience I've ever had on the road. On Thursday night I was at an event in Las Cruces and didn't get back into Juarez until about 9:30. By that time my neighborhood had become completely inaccessible. I tried all the back alleys and every route I could think of but they all just looked like a raging river with stranded cars here and there. I called my husband in desperation to let him know that I was just going to sleep in the car on higher ground but he insisted that our SUV could make it through one particular street. In my head I kept hearing the message that I'd heard all day on the radio in El Paso: Turn Around, Don't Drown. Gordo said I was just being dramatic and that I needed to man up.

Como las meras meras viejas he said.

So I grabbed my lady balls and drove over to the street he had told me about. I thought he had officially lost his mind because that street looked just as flooded as all of the rest. Then I noticed some men out on their front patio and recognized one of Gordo's friends, Horacio. Good man. I asked him if he'd seen anyone else drive through that street. Pues no, pero tu puedes! No mas quedate cerca a la banqueta derecha!

Alright. Balls to the wall. I stayed to the right, as close to where I assumed the curb to be, because of course, it was covered with water. I briefly recalled the advice given to me earlier in the day from a co-worker. If you can't see the curb, it's too deep to drive through. Well. So much for that. I slowly made my way into the lake, careful not to hit the brake. Gordo had warned me a million times, don't brake. I don't know why and frankly I didn't care to ask. I just wanted to get home. So I drove. Halfway down the street water began to creep into the car and I immediately freaked out. I knew I shouldn't have listened to all these idiots! Turn around, don't drown! That's who I should have listened to!

And so in true Emily style, I panicked and gunned it. Water poured into the car. But guess what? I made it through the lake. I didn't turn around but I certainly didn't drown and by the grace of God, I didn't flood the engine. I came home and cried while Gordo laughed at me and then reprimanded me for being such a baby about all of this. People lost their homes he said. And you're over here crying because you're afraid to drive through a little agua! Word.

You gotta love a man who can put you in your place.

The lake in front of our house that Gordo fondly referred to as Lago Cruz...

Only my husband would take the dogs for a walk in this weather!

Lucy fell in the lake... Meeko to the rescue!

Things got bad in parts of El Paso too. Thankfully the police stepped in and roped off some areas.
Notice the Spanish caution tape.... in El Paso. You won't be seeing that on The Bridge...

It finally stopped raining and the waters have receded. Things are starting to get back to normal. Thankfully, there is only a 30% chance of rain for the next couple of days. I am lucky enough to say that the water never reached our front door, but I wish I could say the same for everyone else in Juarez, and in Colorado for that matter. My heart goes out to those who lost their belongings or have been displaced from their homes. 

My thoughts and prayers are with you.

My Thoughts on FX's The Bridge

I didn't want to watch it. I really didn't. Some writers and Borderland Natives had warned me it was complete garbage but I just had to smell the trash myself. People kept asking me if I'd seen it and what I thought of it and I was tired of saying, "We don't get FX in Juarez." Which is good because I later found out that you can get FX in Juarez, it's just not included in the measly 379 peso cable package that I am able to spring for. Shocker. So I moseyed on over to Amazon Prime to purchase an episode. Because I am alarmingly intelligent and tech-savvy I first purchased episode 7. As someone pointed out on my Facebook page, a 7 does look very similar to a 1 so I'm just going to take that excuse and run with it.

So there I was $4.30 later... not really getting off to a good start, but I was trying to keep an open mind. I'm not really sure where to start. There is so much say. I suppose we can start with all the white cops in cowboy hats with East Texas accents. Someone must have failed to mention to the casting directors that the majority of people in El Paso don't speak with a Southern drawl. Newsflash to anyone who isn't familiar with the city, El Paso is over 80% Hispanic and that lends a hand to the diverse culture and general feel of the city itself, not to mention the accent. It may be in Texas but it's not the Wild West, and I wouldn't confuse the everyday Joe in El Paso with Wyatt Earp. Come on people!

With that being said, you could see why I was a little surprised that everyone on the El Paso side of this show was white. Not just the police officers but the criminals, the medical examiner, the CBP agent... Oh wait, I'm sorry, there was Kitty Conchas. She was Hispanic. She says she was born and raised in El Paso and doesn't speak a word of Spanish. She almost said it like, I was born in El Paso, not Juarez you dip shit. It was as if they are two different worlds instead of what they really are. One. This is when it became abundantly clear to me that the directors and screen play writers and actors really have no clue what life is like here and how connected the communities in El Paso and Juarez are. And give me a break, it would be impossible to work the front desk for EPPD and not speak Spanish. Completely, utterly, impossible. Get your resume together Kitty, it's time to start your job hunt. Maybe there's an opening to waitress at a bistro on the West Side? Cross your fingers.

I don't mean to make this all about race and nationality, but the show was incredibly inaccurate on that front. The police officer in Juarez speaks English at home to his wife and son? Really? At first I thought they did that because people hate reading subtitles but there was plenty of Spanish thrown in the mix throughout the show. I did like how they left words like guey and pinche out of the translations. It felt like an inside joke for the Spanish speaking viewers. Really the only thing that was accurate in this episode was the fact that you can drive right through a major US Point of Entry without CBP checking your trunk. Everything else was just... off.

Not only did they get El Paso wrong, they made Juarenses out to look like assholes. I've never lived in a place that was the setting for a television show, but maybe this is how it always is? Maybe the people of Albuquerque hate Breaking Bad? I'm not sure, but man... this was pretty awful. I was happy to see that Matthew Lillard came out from the rock he's been hiding under since 1998 and happy to see one of the characters question, "why one dead white woman is more important than so many dead just across the bridge," but other than that, I just couldn't get past the inaccuracies. It felt like the longest 65 minutes of my life and I checked the clock on multiple occasions wishing time would go by faster.

In the end I was just left thinking, how in the hell can you tell a person is Hispanic by just seeing their legs and do you think Amazon will give me a refund for episode 7?

Pulling the Plug

A friend of mine recently posted a Facebook status update explaining that she would be taking a step back from social networking and that if anyone wanted to stay in touch, they should call her on her phone. What a concept. She's not the first of my friends to make such an announcement so it wasn't the first time I felt a twinge of jealousy and curiosity. But I felt it nonetheless.

I want to unplug sometimes. I really do. The Internet consumes me because I have become a social networking whore. Instagram, Twitter, Skype, Facebook, YouTube, Pinterest, Tumblr, Keek... I want to fuck them all. It's not just out of pure obsession or addiction but that plays a role in it as well. I have a different reason to want to be on the Internet and I think it's a good reason... I suppose everyone thinks their reason is good though, right?

I'm addicted to the Internet because it's connected me with thousands of people who can understand me. And when I say me, I mean the me I've been through each stage of my life. People who have moved around a lot. People who have struggled with drugs and alcohol. People who were outraged by SB 1070. People who married immigrants. People who love calzones. People who are obsessed with border dynamics. People who are separated from their children. People who dream. People who love Beachbody. People who have navigated the rough waters of  USCIS and come out alive but battered and bleeding.

If it weren't for this little Internet-box-machine-thingy-ma-jig, I wouldn't have met any of those people. I find that somewhat unsettling. Now, I can't deny that I've stayed awake until 2 am on a Tuesday playing Candy Crush and wondering how I'll be able to sleep if I don't pass level 140. I've had drunken nights where I watch dozens of YouTube music videos and posted some of those questionable videos to Facebook. I've scrolled through my insanely long Twitter feed until I've seen every single tweet since the last time I'd logged in. I've searched people's addresses on Google Earth before going to a party to make sure the person doesn't live in a neighborhood I might get shot in. I've seen enough Jenna Marbles videos to feel as though she is someone I know in real life. I've played 17 different games of online Scrabble at once. Maybe I did all that yesterday. I have the normal addiction, but I don't think that's the real reason I'm hooked.

I'm hooked because of the people I've connected with.

With that being said, the idea of unplugging and getting away from it all is still somewhat tempting. I've been extremely stressed in the past couple of weeks, trying to find some balance in my life, and it's certainly caused more than a couple arguments at home. Stress turns me into a raging bitch and my loved ones suffer more than anyone. This, of course, has prompted more than one person to suggest I just unplug for a bit and concentrate on life. Real life. Raymundo. Work. Sam. My home.

Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm not paying enough attention to the right things.

But I can't quite shake the idea that if it weren't for everyone I've met online, if it weren't for my Internet promiscuity, I wouldn't be where I am today. I wouldn't be content with my life in Juarez. I wouldn't understand my husband as well as I do. I wouldn't know anyone else who was in my situation and I probably would have thrown tens of thousands of dollars down the toilet with immigration attorneys only to find myself at a dead end. I wouldn't have this blog as my outlet. My family wouldn't be a Skype call away. And as intriguing as the concept of powering down my laptop is, I'm just scared of the possibility of losing any of those connections. So for now, I guess I'll just continue my quest for balance?

It's a long and winding road my friends.

Old School Blogging: 5 Things

It used to be that the only people who read this blog were my parents, grandparents, Zoe and a handful of people in the expat/immigration community but ever since TAL aired I have a few new readers. So I suppose I should let you all know a bit more about me. It comes at the perfect time because I was tagged in a post last month and have yet to respond. One of my favorite bloggers, Leslie Limon, well known for her beyond amazing food blog, La Cocina de Leslie, tagged me in Old School Blogging: 5 Things in her other blog, La Casa de Leslie back in July. I know it's been a while but there's no time like the present, right? Sorry Leslie! ;) This month... errrr... last month, they're asking us to tell five things about ourselves. These types of surveys are always fun for me. Brings you right back to the late 90's, AOL days, when you'd stay up until 3 am instant messaging with friends.


5 Things I Have a Passion For

Family
Fitness
Music
Food
Reality Television

5 Things I'd Like to do Before I Die

Help my father build a house
Skydive
Take my husband  to Sunday dinner at my mom's
Get to my goal weight
Create something of greatness that changes lives 

5 Things I Say a Lot

I'm obsessed

Fuck

Who's excited?

Positivity is infectious.

C-O-N-G-R-A-T-U-L-A-T-I-O-N-S (telling my husband how to spell congratulations)

5 Books/Magazines I've Read Lately

This Love Is Not For Cowards by Robert Andrew Powell (fuck yeah)

Women, Food & God by Geneen Roth (just another AFGO) 

Jemima J by Jane Green (for the millionth time)

El Huesped by Stephenie Meyer (my first book in Spanish!)
Good Housekeeping (my sweet mother sends me a subscription as a gift every year)

5 Favorite Movies (aka hardest question EVER)

The Breakfast Club
Thomas Crown Affair
Angelitos Negros
Enough
Requiem of a Dream

5 Places I'd Like to Travel

San Salvador, El Salvador
Hidalgo del Parral, Mexico
Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, Costa Rica
Genoa, Italy
Saint Gallen, Switzerland

5 People I'd like to tag...

Giselle from The Deportee's Wife

Frank from Burro Hall

Corin from Corin in Exile

Sara from Rebelde Pequena

Jill from Loving the Land of the Flour Tortilla

PS. Thank God I don't know everything I know.

The New Black

I was watching Orange Is the New Black just now when suddenly the computer froze and the screen went black. Thank you Cablemas. I was halfway through Episode 13 and suddenly left with only a reflection of myself on the laptop when it hit me.

A couple episodes back Piper mentioned to a teenage delinquent that the scariest thing about prison isn't the other inmates and what they might do to you. The scariest thing about prison is that you realize who you really are because you have nowhere to run. Nothing to distract yourself with. No Twitter, no family, no Facebook drama, no 9 to 5, no carting the kids off to football practice.

It's just you.

And while I shouldn't dare to compare the life of an exiled wife of an undocumented immigrant to prison life, here I am. This life might not be prison, but it has it's limitations. You can only go so far and you can only do so much when you are trapped in a country that isn't your own. You are suddenly forced to realize what you're made of. To realize how you react to things. To realize what you want. To realize what you need.

To realize who you are.

And that, that right there, is what's hard about life in Mexico for me. I want to be the strong woman. The one who doesn't need a bathtub. The one who doesn't need Sunday dinner at mom's. The one who doesn't need health insurance. The one who doesn't need a garage. The one who doesn't need a fancy gym membership. The one who doesn't need date night at AMC and Chili's.  The one who doesn't need to own a home. The one who doesn't need stability or to know what's going to happen tomorrow.

But then I see my reflection. I see that I'm not that strong woman. And I see that I'm a little sad still. Deep down under all that positivity. I'm a little pathetic. A little desperate. A little jealous. A little tired.

And in that moment... that exact moment... I realize that I'm just me. This is all I can be in this moment.

Even if it's not exactly who I want to be.

#FirstWorldProblems

I had one of the most fantastic weeks ever because of all the people that TAL has brought into my life. The support from everyone has been amazing... and unexpected... and so... well, bad ass. I didn't realize how many people would hear the show or how it would impact my life. More people have read my blog this week than in the 3 years since I started it. I've gotten supportive emails and tweets from all walks of life, from military wives transplanted to Fort Bliss to train travelers in Oslo to native Juarenses who haven't been back in years out of fear. I love meeting new people and hearing new stories so it's been incredible to connect with all of you. You would think nothing could knock me off this cloud I'm on, but because the Universe doesn't want anyone to get too excited, all this crazy stuff has been happening.

My car broke down for the 2nd time in two weeks forcing me to suck up my pride and ask for rides from friends, which is always something I dread. I hate asking for help and I hate cars, car problems, driving and anything that involves gasoline really. There was an incident at a BBQ back home and my son was left with a broken, cracked and unfortunately unsalvageable front tooth and although he's taking it like a champ, I'm not even there to make him a milkshake and tell him it's going to be okay. My plantar fasciitis is acting up again which has given me a gangster limp and while I was doing my workout on Wednesday I went down into a burpee in some funky way which caused my thumb to pop out of place and now I can't bend it. Since I am in the process of losing weight I only have one pair of slacks that I can wear to work without having to physically hold them up every time I move and I somehow managed to tear a big hole in the butt of those. Who knows how long that was there for? I decided to go all Susie-Homemaker and stitch up the hole but couldn't find any thread. I was just remembering how the prisoners in Orange is the New Black took the thread from old t-shirts so they could thread their eyebrows when Ray came to the rescue with a roll of thread that he had been hiding God knows where. And to top it off my poor husband has been having all sorts of stomach pains this week which landed him back at that dreaded hospital where they diagnose everyone with gout and give them 428 prescriptions and now he has decided that he doesn't want to drink alcohol for the next two months. This brings us full circle because I was fully intending to deal with all these other problems by having a nice glass of red wine and relaxing in a bubble bath and now the Mister doesn't want to drink. Oh, and like most people in Juarez, I don't have a bathtub.

Whew. I'm glad I got all that off my chest.

Anyway so I was doing really great with all the feeling sorry for myself and what not when I decided to reply to some blog comments and I see a woman who's son has leukemia, explaining how it was for her family when he was first diagnosed. Oh. And then later on that day a close friend messaged me about some serious medical issues her family is going through and that one of her children might have cancer. Oh. And then I get on the bridge yesterday morning and I see a new amputee panhandling and I can't help but think what my life would be like if I didn't legs.

Oh.

Ohhhhhhhhhh. 

So God, you mean to tell me it's time to stop feeling sorry for myself? You mean to tell me these problems aren't anything compared to what most people in this world have to face? You mean to tell me I'm blessed and lucky and should be beyond fucking grateful for my wonderful life?

I've gotten this message before, years ago, when I was feeling sorry for myself about our immigration situation, but I got the reminder loud and clear again this week. Loud. And. Clear.