Even now, weeks away from Mexico City, I still miss my time
At CAFEMIN—el Centro de Acojida y Formación
para el Empoderamiento de la Mujer Indígena y Migrante. I could never, ever have imagined the impact
this group had on my winter, and my life, during the winter of 2013.
I first
became acquainted with CAFEMIN in October when I was in Mexico City visiting my
friend Rachelle. On my first day there she
told me that our mutual friend, Lis, had a project to pitch to me. We met that night and the project was just
too good to pass up. I’d get to develop
a library from scratch.
The
next day we met with Sister Mirian, one of the four nuns who was developing
CAFEMIN into a refugee center for indigenous and migrant women. Mirian showed me their massive collection of
books, the space they were in, and commented…”We have no idea what to do with
them.”
I
think Lis knew the frustrations I felt at the Quaker place, but she also knew I
was more than able to pursue the project CAFEMIN was offering.
Well I
did, and I was excited. I love projects
like this. Plus, CAFEMIN would give me
the structure to allow me to live long-term in Mexico City and not feel like a
tourist.
And so
I returned in late January. I really had
no idea where to start.
All I
had was a large room, rickety old bookshelves, a few thousand books and boxes
and boxes of junk. The nuns threw
nothing away! There was no furniture and
no order to anything.
I
spent all of February just separating things.
The poor nuns. I’d throw things
into plastic bags then move the bags to the garbage area. The next day I’d find half the things either
in the library or tucked away in some other place in the Casa. It didn’t take long before I became more
judicious. I’d tuck old books into my
daypack and carry them home. Or I’d rip
magazines to the point where they couldn’t be salvaged. That solved the problem!
Because
the “library” lacked internet access, I moved a table out the end of a long
balcony that ran the entire length of the second floor. My computer was close
to an office that had a wireless connection.
For weeks, during the baImy, sun-filled days of February and
March, I’d sit outside. Warm breezes
swept through the compound. Birds
chirped. Several times during the day I
could hear the distant sound of freight trains.
I tried to make a goal of 50 books a day which, more or
less, I managed to do. Mid-winter,
CAFEMIN was quiet, but there were still guests and I’d be called in at times to
translate for refugees from Africa or Asia who only spoke English. Navigating worldcat.org for catalog numbers
could find me in at the National Library of Spain, at a university library in
Chile, Australia or Mexico or a public library in the USA. I often used our local library network to
assist me. At lunch I’d interact with
people from Russia, Honduras or Cameroon.
I was never bored.
Slowly, book by book, the library took shape. People would help me periodicallly—moving furniture,
fixing the old shelving units. Leonor, a
volunteer from the neighborhood, spent hours typing labels, affixing them to
books and then putting them on the shelves.
Early on Mirian began inviting me to lunch—their main meal,
actually, at 2:00 pm. Initially I said
no, but though that rude. But when I did
join them, it was no turning back. It
became one of the happy points of the day.
Plus, la comida was always
delicious. I came to enjoy my time with
the nuns—Celia, Tere, Magda and Mirian.
There were happy people and their happiness made me happy.
I do not know when Marisol entered my life. She was not there when I arrived in January
and then she was. She lived in a world
of working adults and, looking back on it, was desperate for attention. She began wandering up to the terrace where I
worked. At the Quaker Casa, I rarely had
anything to do with refugees, so what to do with this sweet, beautiful three
and half year old?
She’d keep me company for a few hours a day. It wasn’t long before I started bringing in
treats—a small bag of popcorn, some chocolate.
She was curious about books, but there was really nothing in the library
for her. So I started buying books, and
we’d spend some time during the day sitting on a sofa, on the stairwell, on the
floor. I was determined to read through
the pantheon of classic children’s literature—in Spanish. At the beginning, she’d squirm and
wiggle. “Siéntate,” I’d tell her gently.
“Sit.”
In time she did, and she learned to respond to my questions. This had never been part of her culture.
I’d also bring in princess jewelry and tiaras and coloring
books and she’d pretend she was Sleeping Beauty and we’d color pictures of
castles and princes. I loved giving her
these things as much as she loved getting them.
This was becoming precious time.
One day Mirian asked if she could ask a favor of me. She shared Marisol and her mother’s
story. It was horrific and not something
anyone should have to endure, let alone a child of three. I had not realized that I was one of the few
men with whom she’d interact. I was not
young, nor brown nor Mexican—the profile she feared.
Would I have lunch with her every day? Just the two of us?
It cut into the day, but it was no hardship. So every day at 2:00 Marisol would track me
down. “La comida está lista.” Lunch is ready. I’d walk into the dining room and mom had set
two place settings. And Marisol and I
would eat…and chat. For me she’d eat,
but I often had to fly the food into her mouth, or walk it in pretending I was
an animal. Lunch became joyous.
In March I began
telling her stories of the Easter Bunny.
I told her he delivered chocolate and gifts to boys and girls where I
lived. “He’s my friend,” I told her, “Maybe
he’ll come to CAFEMIN if I ask him.”
I had her hooked.
On the Wednesday before Easter I tracked her down. It was time to call the Conejo.
“Conejo de Pascua?
Comó estás? Si. Si. Estoy bien.
Escucha…hay una niña aqui en México.
Yo sé que no vienes a México, pero ella es mi amiga y puedes hacer una
excepción?”
Easter Bunny? How are
you? Yes. Yes. I’m fine. Look, there’s a
little girl here in Mexico. I know that
you don’t come here, but she’s my friend and can you make an exception?
She was wide eyed.
Yup,” I told her.
He’ll come, but I don’t know
when. He’s invisible, you know, and
usually comes at night. But I’ll be here
and if you hear me shouting…”Marisol, Marisol, the Easter Bunny came,” You’d
better come running.
Thanks to Wal-Mart, 7-Eleven and a few high-end department
stores, I was able to pull together an Easter basket, jelly beans and chocolate
eggs. I also picked up crayons, another
tiara, and a princess wand and jewelry, juice boxes and packages of
cookies. I hid them around the library,
notified the nuns and José Luis who pulled together the guests and a few
interns. Everyone was waiting when I
shouted.
“Marisol. Marisol.
Vino el conjeo de Pascua. Vino el
conjeo de Pascua!”
She tore up the stairs, stopped at the front door to the
library, oblivious to fifteen people watching her. She focused on the basket then shrieked. José Luis had lived in Philadelphia so he got
it. She raced around the room picking up
Easter loot, José Luis goading her on.
Oh the joy of introducing the Easter Bunny to a three and
half year old Mexican.
One day a large butterfly was trapped in the large expanse
of CAFEMIN. We could all hear her. “Mariposa,” she screamed with joy. “Mariposa!” Watching and sharing that gave me an
idea. I asked her mom if she’d like to
go to the zoo.
And so we did.
Just after we entered there was a kiosk where the owner
would face-paint children. “Would you
like to be a butterfly” I asked her. It was a foolish question. Of course she would.
And so she sat while the man painted her face. And for 30 pesos more I bought her wings, and
a wand, and for the rest of the day she fluttered around Chapultepec. For weeks afterward, she’d don the wings and
run around CAFEMIN pretending to be a butterfly.
Winter transitioned to spring. The days became warmer. One Friday leapt to another. My computer died
and I lost my perch on the terrace and wrapped up my work in a dark
office. I mourned the loss of my outdoor
office, the chirp of birds, the distant sound of a train whistle, the warm
breezes that would sweep through the central area of the compound.
One day, towards the end of the April, when my Mexico City
days were winding down, I was walking through La Raza, one of the
massive metro interchanges on my to CAFEMIN, when I realized I was sad. As tired as I was of this project, I knew my
time was coming to an end. I realized how
happy I’d been at the Casa—working, interacting with people, feeling useful,
being appreciated. But I also knew that
the chemistry was good between me and CAFEMIN and that there was still a lot
left to do. I liked them and they liked
me and I knew that this would be home for a long time to come.
I was in the homestretch and I was spending my time painting
furniture, finishing processing books, putting the final touches to the
library.
All my hard work culminated in the late afternoon of May 3rd.
It was la Gran
Inauguración of the CAFEMIN library.
My friend Angela was visiting and we’d spent the afternoon at La Villa, the site of the Basilica to
Our Lady of Guadalupe. Actually, she
toured the site while I sat in a nearby McDonald’s writing the first speech I’d
give in Spanish.
Mirian had gathered together a large group of people
associated with the Casa. Leonor brought
a small group of children from her catechism class. José Luis and all the nuns
were there. Angela represented all the
people from home who were not present. Lis was there, too, and I was grateful
for that. Without her this never would have happened.
Mirian had locked the door to the library and, in Mexican
fashion, had tied a red ribbon to it. I untied the bow then opened the door. She
spoke some words of thanks, and then I spoke—24 pages of large writing. Angela said it sounded good, but a week
later, when I had my friend Carlos edit it, I saw how many errors I had.
Afterwards, we all gathered in the kitchen below—the kitchen
where I’d eaten so many meals. There was
wine and a toast, and wonderful quesadillas and two cakes. I was too
overwhelmed to be sad, but the sadness would come later, as it had come
earlier.
Three days later Angela left and I spent the better part of
the week wrapping things up—sorting through 33 boxes of books and separating
what to sell, what to bring to the Mother House and what to store away for next
year.
On the Saturday before I left for
home I felt like a crazy man. CAFEMIN
was just one more thing in a long list of things to do. With the help of three Honduran guests, we
got everything into storage.
I’d held off until the last the
hardest task of the day—saying goodbye to Marisol and letting her know that I
wouldn’t return. A friend had suggested
that I give her a photo of the two of us.
I chose one from the day we’d gone to the zoo—she with wings, a wand and
her face painted as a butterfly.
“Mariposa,” I told her. “I’m going
home and I won’t see you again.” I gave
her a stuffed dog and told her his name was Tio
Dan. I gave her the photo and told
her that I would always be with her.
She was too young, of course, to
understand. But her mother understood
and she sat across from me, tears flowing down her cheeks.
I held it together, said goodbye to Mirian,
Celia, Magda and Tere, and left quickly.
“It’s not a despedida, Dan,”
Mirian said. “It’s just adios until you return.” It’s not a farewell but just a goodbye until
you return again.
I left, got into a taxi, told the
driver where to bring me, then settled into the seat.
And that’s when the tears
flowed.
I cried all the way home.
