I remember waking up as a teenager in a Mexican town in the state of Jalisco, where I was spending a summer, to the sound of giggles and rustling coming from the open window of the bedroom where I slept. Opening my eyes, I tilted my head up to see what was causing the noise and saw some half dozen child-sized heads peeking around the edge of the window frame at me. Upon discovering I was awake, shrieking erupted amongst the group and the faces vanished… only to furtively reemerge and disappear with renewed laughter again and again until I got out of bed and drew the shades. Clearly, an out-of-town “Gringo” was an event.
Contrasting with that somewhat comical experience, as a younger child I had a Siddhartha moment while vacationing with my family at a Mexican beach resort. On horseback, we left the comfort of the tourist district, making our way towards the countryside. Before reaching the open fields that were our destination, we passed through a shantytown on the edge of the city, home to the desperately poor (many of whom had come to construct or work in the tourist hotels). Thirty years later I still remember the sense of shock and dismay at their dire living conditions - houses with cardboard walls, no running water save for communal faucets, burning trash creating clouds of toxic smoke - and being aghast at the inequality of the world.
During a college semester abroad in Xalapa, Veracruz, I was fortunate to be befriended by a family of children who performed in front of passing traffic for coins. They brought me back to their ramshackle house and introduced me to their family. Homemade pulque sat brewing in a dimly lit corner of the dirt floor shelter they had created in the empty space between two buildings. The cast of characters that circulated in and out to purchase a quick drink or, alternately, linger for an entire afternoon included laborers, drunks, toughs, neighbors and the children’s extended family - including the presiding grandmother-matriarch, who accepted me into the home with tremendous love and generosity (she later confided that I reminded her of a deceased son). We drank, we danced, I took photos of all (except of the man who had recently been released from jail who swore he would kill me if my camera turned in his direction). When I left, the matriarch gave me two pillowcases that she had carefully embroidered with flowers and birds, which I still have to this day.
In Guadalajara, I spent many summer’s at my Grandmother’s modest home - part of a development of identical prefab dwellings that extended in a grid for maybe 8 blocks in any direction. Since much of the time was spent sitting side by side watching telenovelas in her compact living room, I savored our two weekly trips to the nearby outdoor market. Smells of cilantro and cooking beans wafted through the bustling stall where we ate flor de calabaza quesadillas and we brought home sweet potatoes baked in syrup to stir into milk, fruits for snacking and vegetables to cook. As I grew older and discovered photography, I had occasion to venture farther and wander the city. But Guadalajara was a difficult place to photograph. I often found the streets empty, filled with shoppers of no particular interest, or too dangerous to produce my camera. In the latter category, I still regret not having captured an image of a street I stumbled upon with Mariachi bands for hire, bars, dereliction, menacing-looking men, and women without much clothing but plenty of make-up.
This photograph is from Oaxaca. In such a layered and complex country as Mexico, Oaxaca has its own story, its own panoply of people, cultural traditions and fusions. One of its distinctions, apparently, is that it has not succumbed to the disorder much of the rest of the country is grappling with. At least in its capital, it has retained a sense of dignity and stability. Perhaps that can be sensed from this image.