Compadrazgo reintegrated native societies badly fragmented by the disease and other disruptions that followed foreign invasion (P. 169)

Compadrazgo reintegrated native societies badly fragmented by the disease and other disruptions that followed foreign invasion (P. 169)

As I stand within a crowd of people flowing by me with river-like intensity, I’m left alone in the crowd all the same. I am lost in the market of Jalisco’s largest tianguis, with no cellphone, no mom, and no sense of direction. I begin to feel my face get hot, red hot. “You are not going to freak out” I said to myself, attempting to figure out the situation at hand. I am just lost, that is the truth of it, but things could be worse. At the same time, I most definitely did not feel safe without some form of authority figure leading me through this situation. Needless to say, I got extremely nervous.

While taking a deep breath, I was struck with an idea. Not only do I have an unfortunate situation on my hands, but I have the power to make it a better one and I took it very literally. I began, just in the same as everybody else moving past me, started moving forward. I blocked out the fear in my mind of being temporarily lost, and let in the idea of exploration. Seeing all the stands, filled with Mexican delicacies reminded me that I was still in my home country. Mangos with chamoy, the chunks of the ripe fruit filling the clear plastic cup to the very brim had my mouth watering. Bead art that could put a beautiful rainbow to shame, candy stands on wheels that were the size of cars, and were able to move with the grace of a cat. I didn’t realize what the market life had to offer me until I experienced for myself.

I kept a slow pace through the market. Looking at every single stand, taking in every single product available for me to look at: perfumes, clothes patches, shoes, boots, local art, an unimaginable amount of food, custom keys, jewelry, weapons, bootlegged DVDs, religious sacraments, . I figured if you need something, the tianguis has it. I stumbled upon a very old looking bookstore as I walked. I could tell it had been around many years before any of the other buildings were constructed. With its partially breaking wooden sign, and faded, chipping red doorway I was intrigued.

A large cloud of dust hits my face as I enter. The storekeeper blowing dust off of some books. I did a scan of the man, just as any other human analyzes another. He had a wrinkly face, I could tell that his life had been full in labor because his skin looked as if it had never seen a day without powerful sunshine. He was a hunched old man, glad to be able to do some form of honest work even though he wanted to do more. His eyes however stood apart. They were a deep rich light blue, like a dark turquoise which is very uncommon in Native Mexicans. Whatever the man had to offer, I wanted. I looked around the bookstore, scanning the different books, reading the titles out loud in Spanish. Paintings of famous Mexican influencers: Frida Khalo, Diego Rivera, Pancho Villa. All of them covered with a thin film of dust. Unfortunately, I didn’t know any of the books but I did end up finding a Dr. Seuss book in Spanish, at least I had something I knew about. I noticed something else about the bookstore. In one of the corners of the store, sat an old lady hunched over a book, intensely reading. I observed her from a distance, as to not break her concentration of the book, but I wanted to know what she was reading because it looked familiar. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I asked the old man a question in Spanish. “Excuse me sir, that nice old lady over there knows that she’s reading a book meant for 12 years old, right?” He slowly looked up at me, with those deep blue eyes. He nearly opened his mouth to say something but then abruptly closed it. He was thinking about what he was going to say, and I had no idea what was going to come next.  

“You seem like a nice kid that’s not from around here,” he said. “Am I wrong?” I answered back “no” and told him that I was visiting family in Mexico. The next few things he said to me I would not forget, and I may paraphrase because this happened when I was 9.“The first thing you must realize is where you are right now. I’m going to assume that you come from the U.S, correct?” I responded yes. He continued, “She and I however, come from a third world country, where we live with barely enough bread to give to our families, and just enough water to give the entire town. Nearly a fourth of the people in this town can barely write because of how poorly the economy and teaching system is here. Work is held above education, rather than having education stressed to provide better work. People here choose the easy route, which is working in a field, selling or growing crops, or they end up homeless.” He paused for a second, taking in a deep breath. I wanted to put in something into the conversation but my grandfather always told me that old people take time to explain situations. So I kept my mouth shut and kept listening to the man. “Here, If you’re able to read and write, it’s as if you have a superpower. She’s been coming to my shop nearly everyday for 6 years, attempting to get through books. She’s only gotten through 3. You, my friend, have that superpower.    It’s being carried around within you and you don’t even know it’s true worth. The power of words on a piece of paper is starting to lose its effect.” I stood in awe for a few seconds, absorbing every little piece of wisdom that this old man had to offer. I looked back at the old woman, still hunched over her book. I felt a small spark of joy light in my stomach. She was taking such progressive steps to better change the rest of her life. I looked back at the old man, and I could see that there was a look on his face that awaited a response. He wanted his knowledge and opinion to be taken seriously, and used as knowledge for the future. As he looked through his old, bushy eyebrows, I could see a smile begin to form on his face. I told him “I grew up knowing how to read and write, being able to read something and think nothing of it. To be able to write something and think nothing of it. But, I see what you are trying to show me. What you see, what you experience, I can now understand what you see.” He smiled even more. I could tell that he felt accomplished for opening the eyes of a young soul.

All through this, I had the Dr. Seuss book in hand. He looked at me, then looked at the book, then back at me. “Take the book,” he said. “Literature is a human right that should be attained by everyone on this earth, the uneducated included. Paper and pen over the sword Compadr-” and at that moment, my mother came bursting through the store entrance with a vengeance. That’s when I knew I may have fucked up on making the decision to roam the market rather than staying in a stationary position. “What were you thinking, wandering around and not being close to me. I could’ve lost you!” The bookstore keeper and I were both startled from her entrance, and before I could say “But you did kind of lose me,” I was yanked out of the bookstore like a chicken out of a coup. I waved the man goodbye, and gave him a smile as I was being yanked aimlessly.  I don’t think he realizes what that impact had on me.

I returned to the market with a new thought in my head, a new observation. I looked at the signs of the different posts and observed them. Almost all of the signs being as short and brief as possible as to what they had to offer, some of them even having grammar errors too. I unconsciously told myself to feel pity, but I knew better to not give that. Pity helps no one except for the people looking for it.

I left that market with a book, as well with a very valuable memory. A genuine experience that I could carry with me, because I want to give. Giving is what humans do. Giving is what will help us progress. Giving will in time help us all, let that be known.