Filmmaking in Juchitán, Méxicoby Eren McGinnis
The Fubright-García Robles program
provided me and my family with a stipend to become
"cultural ambassadors" and to promote
mutual understanding and respect between the
United States and México. We had the
extreme pleasure of spending a year way down south
in Juchitán, México. I am a Mexican
American filmmaker and I made a short fictional
film, with the support of local actors and the
community, called, Al Garete, which means adrift,
and finds a young woman facing a difficult
situation with the assistance of a pirate, a cross
dressing Lady boy, and a full tilt pachanga.
Before arriving in Juchitán, I got
to spend a week in México City meeting with
my fellow Fulbrighters and exploring the delights
of the city. We were given a tour of the Museo
Nacional de Antropolgía, attended a
performance of the Ballet Folklórico de
México at the Palacio de Bellas Artes,
climbed the ruins of the magnificent pyramids of
Teotihuacán, and went to a formal reception
at the U.S. Ambassador"s house. We ate
wonderful and elegant four course lunches and were
given readings from scholars and the Press
Attaché of the U.S. Embassy. While standing
in front of the Diego Rivera mural inside of El
Palacio Nacional, I felt overwhelmed while looking
at his representation of the entire history of
México. It is painted in the fresco
technique and includes Quetzalcóatl, the
Aztec plumed serpent god and Moctezuma"s
warriors, wearing the skins of jaguars while
battling the heavily armed Conquistadors. The
glory of the Mexican Revolution and victory over
the greed and cruelty of the Spanish comes alive
with unbelievable details and colors. Frida Kahlo
is painted as a teacher. I can not tell you how
beautiful this mural is. It is also remarkable
because this painting is housed in The Palacio
which is built in the same place where Moctezuma
and Hernán Cortés lived and where
Mexican President Vincente Fox now works.
My fellow Fubrighters were by and large,
"Latinofiles", or gringos who have a
passion for Latin culture. Many were married to or
had been married to a person from Latin America.
They were smart, spoke excellent Spanish, and were
extremely knowledgeable about their particular
expertise in México. I noticed straight
away, that with the exception of two people, none
of the Fulbrighters were people of color. My guess
is that Chicanos who attend Harvard or who have
access to the good Universities are still an
anomaly. Access, opportunity, and education, are
still mostly in the hands of the privileged few
and it is vital that more people of color find the
means and the knowledge to participate in the
Fulbright program. Our house down in
Juchitán was a concrete palace. One of my
favorite places to be was on the roof where the
sultry wind would blow and I would remind myself
how lucky I was to be living in the Isthmus of
Mexico, the land of my father. This is where I
hung our laundry to dry and I could sometimes hear
my 11 year old son, Max, shouting out during his
school time recess soccer matches. I enjoyed
looking out over two large fields packed with all
sorts of living and growing things, such as
soaring coconut trees overloaded with coconuts,
morning glories, cucumber vines, yellow daisies,
iguanas, and birds. I once saw a 20 pound blue jay
with long and curly feathers sprouting out of his
head. Max told me that Jaguars live in the field
too. Max was in the fifth grade and went to
a prissy and dilapidated Catholic school right
around the block called "La Escuela Vicente
Ferrer". He got to wear a groovy
"sporting uniform" on Wednesday, his tee
shirt boldly promoting the school with a red
flamed torch and the words "Science and
Virtue". A local friend, Jose Hinojosa, went
with me to help sign Max up for school. Jose was a
bit rattled after noting the school had not
changed a speck since he had been a student there
twenty two years ago. Max would occasionally mix
up his Spanish and English and came home talking
about "The Muns". A nun in Spanish is a
monja pronounced "mon-ha", so the nuns
will forever be "muns" in our house.
I walked Max to school in the morning. Our
first "Buenos Dias" was to our neighbor
Herman, who had a bright orange and royal blue
house and the finest grass in the neighborhood. He
tended to his tidy house and had a passion for
sweeping the street. Herman was loud and fun and
has been sober for 28 years in a town where people
really like to drink. Diego, the tortilla
teenager, would cruise by on his bike, which is
how most working men got around town. His bike was
a three wheeler with a single wheel in the back
and two wheels supporting a sturdy cart in the
front. In the morning his cart was filled with
tortillas and in the afternoon his sweetie got the
pleasure of being biked around town. She looked
like a queen. I would buy a kilo of steaming hot
tortillas for 7 pesos which is around 76 cents. I
would toss a lime into my pocket that had fallen
off a neighbor"s tree. I liked the way the
lime made my hand smell. We would then
greet our neighborhood vigilante who had a single
shot bolt action rifle slung over his shoulder.
Our day time vigilante was grumpy and sullen, but
the night time vigilante was gracious and a lot of
cheerful young women and other folks from the
barrio enjoyed hanging out with him in the
evening. The night time vigilante was bowlegged
and packed a six gun tied on with rope. He would
walk down the middle of our street, late at night,
back lit by the street lights. Our trash
men had the three wheeled bikes too, rode by
daily, and threw each neighbor"s small bundle
of trash into their cart. While on my roof, I
would see one of the trash men, who was about 12,
take his daily collection of trash and toss it
over a fence into a field nearby. The one Max and
I would see each morning was dressed in dirty rags
and pushed around a rusty and ancient wheelbarrow.
He had all the "stuff" of a trash man,
and seemed to be making the rounds, but he never
actually collected any trash. I speculated that he
used to be a trash man, and now enjoyed
experiencing the memory of collecting trash. Part
of his 8am morning ritual was to hang out at our
closest "Miscelania" and down a few
beers. Our neighbor Herman finally cleared up my
confusion and told me that this guy is the
supervisor of the trash men. Max"s
school was named after Vicente Ferrer who is the
Patron Saint of Juchitán. According to
local legend, God gave Vicente Ferrer a bag of
queers. Everywhere he traveled he would plop down
a gay person, however, we he got to
Juchitán, he tripped, his bag came undone,
and a whole bunch tumbled out. This explains why
there are so many gay people in Juchitan, but I
didn"t see it that way. Juchitán is
like the San Francisco of México, because
gay people are "out" rather than being
the present but hidden ones. This model of
tolerance was a wonderful example for my children.
We heard tear wrenching serenades for young
lovers in the middle of the night, marching bands
celebrating a neighbor"s birthday at 5 in the
morning with a rousing and loud Las Mananitas, and
learned some Zapotec, which is one Indigenous
language of the region. We ate fried grasshoppers
as snacks, the most luscious mangos and pineapple
on the face of this earth, tantra chocolate bars,
and drank booh-pooh, a wickedly delicious hand
frothed concoction of cinnamon, corn, and hot
chocolate. We worked hard, but it felt less like
work than the experience of a life time. We ate
iguana tamales with powerful women who run the
whole town and dress like fairy princesses,
complete with a fragrant profusion of flowers in
their carefully braided hair. It was a magical
Fulbright year when my filmmaking work and life
with my children all blended together marvelously.
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