Travels in Mexico. Fun times that can be abruptly interrupted by awkward moments that make me question everything.
I was browsing in this charming store right off the ocean in Sayulita, Mexico. Bright colors, Mexican art, bags, table clothes, pillows and little knick knacks perfect for gifts. Everything about this store screamed tourism but in a respectful and authentic way. The people scooted past each other in the narrow aisles between the shelves and tables. Not surprisingly, I heard English all around me. But it was this shrill voice that caught my attention as she talked to the American owner/cashier at the check out. I cringed at her tone as she asked the local questions about her store and what it was like living in the beachtown.
“Why do you live here?” She asked with accusation vs curiosity.
I stood still and waited for the exchange to take place. I stood still because I couldn’t comprehend how someone could ask that question to a stranger and I needed to know how the woman would answer.
I had lived in the tourist town of Puerto Vallarta for three years at one point in my life, long ago. I remember the frustration of being questioned for being where I was.
Like I needed to offer up an explanation for my life choices.
Like people had the right to jump all up in my business.
Complete strangers.
The woman slowly replied with some generic answer about her love for the ocean and the culture. I was hoping she’d snap back with some sassy reply and I realized that I was still feeling sassy myself, so many years later.
It was interesting, the self righteousness that boiled in me as I perked up to listen to the exchange.
It was interesting, the way I looked at this questioning tourist with critical eyes. How ignorant, intrusive and nosy of this woman.
I allowed myself to see the situation differently and I sent love to the woman whom I had declared stupid and unaware. I didn’t know her story or where she came from. I forgave myself for my quick judgment and moved on.
Later that night I was out with some locals. My friend was telling me about her brother who had been married for over a year and had a baby. They lived at her Mom’s house. I interrupted and asked, “Why do they live there?”
It was so quick. It came out of my mouth before I had even thought about the question. There it was, ‘why’ with that same tone. OMG I’m such an asshole. The question broke our connection immediately. I noticed its rawness in her reaction. She paused and held her gaze with me. It was a loaded question that instantly created a cultural gap between us. Immediately our conversation transformed from friends confiding and sharing stories to an awkward and unwelcome teaching moment.
Who was I to ask that question? Why had I asked it? How was it possible for me to be offended by someone asking ‘Why” in a way that dripped bias and then turn around and ask the same question to someone else?
Because I’m human. I’m not perfect and I’m still practicing at this thing called life, communication, cultural awareness, inner biases, microagressions…all of it. Damn it. I hate screwing up. I hate being the jerk. But move on, sister. Get over yourself.
My friend wasn’t as insulted as I had been. And I was quick to correct my question and attempt to take it back (to be clear, it was a pathetic back peddling attempt). The question still lingered. Because intent and impact are two different things. My intent wasn’t to be harmful or insulting, yet it was possible the impact could have been.
If you are wondering why this question was so rude or if I am overly sensitive, please step into the space of curiosity with me.
Why would your brother still live at his Mom’s house with his wife and newborn? The assumption was that something was wrong for that to be the reality. The assumption was that it was out of the ordinary and needed an explanation. It was me getting all up in their business and making a negative judgment about a cultural norm.
In my world, kids move out when they turn 18 years old, or after they graduate high school. It is a thing…our cultural thing.
In Mexico there is no magic number 18. Like many other cultures around the world, kids aren’t expected to move out at age 18. And even as things change in the USA and more kids are moving back in with their parents, please note that they are moving ‘back in’ and not necessarily staying longer.
My question, ‘why do they live there’ was an unaware (and let’s just say, Americanized) question. Just like I couldn’t wrap my head around living with my parents as a married mom without needing a reason, the tourist couldn’t wrap her head around anyone wanting to leave their home country and live in Mexico. It was the way she said it. It was the judgment in her tone that gave it away. Why would anyone do that? Judgement. Bias.
I shifted back into a cultural awareness. I had bumped up against the belief that ‘the right way’ is to leave your parents home after you turn 18 years old. And anything else isn’t ‘right.’
It’s silly when I look at it like that, isn’t it? Of course my experience creates my understanding and has nothing to do with right or wrong. It is simply the way I know. Being able to see different ways is a skill and takes practice and awareness. It means we can choose to check our norms and open our minds and our hearts in an attempt to create meaningful, loving and honest connection.
I choose to step out of judging what is right and wrong.
I choose to remove the word ‘should’ from my vocabulary.
I choose to be open to all the different ways of life in this world.
I choose to love and respect people for making their own choices.
And sometimes I’m human and I screw up.
