Dear Mr. Donald Trump,
I recently had the fortunate experience to travel to Mexico. Just as a crazy 20-something, hippy elitist liberal like me would do, I took a month off of work to bike through the backroads of Oaxaca and Chiapas. I spent one month pedaling - the bicycle kind, not the begging kind, don’t worry I’m not one of those hand-out mongers you love to hate. I have some opinions on those folks too, but we’ll save that for another letter. Anyway, I thought with all the things you’ve had to say about Mexico and Mexicans lately, I might have some insight to share with you.
So I went to Mexico and here is what I found.
In Trinitaria, a small junction town otherwise forgotten by the mapmakers, I found Don Julio, security guard at the elementary school. On none other than NewYears Eve, Don Julio opened the gate to our bicycle gang so we could camp within the safety of the school grounds. Don Julio’s wife brought him pollo con arroz at midnight to celebrate and make sure he was well and full while he finished his shift. As our headlamps lit up our humble camping kitchenette, Don Julio looked on in either amazement or peculiarity as we prepared, in true camper’s style, a New Year’s feast of pasta, black beans and fresh guayaba. In the end, he caved and shared a bit of the boxed wine we had brought along to celebrate.
Somewhere on the way to Huatulco I found Ruben, a generous man who upon viewing me damaged and derailed on the side of the road, proceeded to strap my tired bicycle to the back of his taxi and tote me over the mountain and over to the mechanic in the next town to fix her up. I found in Ruben a man who suffered the all-too-common ailments of a changing climate and its effects on his agricultural investments and generations of hard work. He had tried his luck with the American Dream but opted to return to the homeland, opening up a little shop with his wife on the side of the highway and raise some cows for milk and cheese production. We imbibed in his juke box, and his beer.
In Niltepec I found a Feria. You may not know what these are, Mr. Trump, because I don't fancy you as the type of man who would ever want to attend a cultural event such as the local village’s fair, but I’ll spare you the details and tell you they’re even more thrilling than your town hall rallies. I found single mother working alongside her daughter, cooking up the most delicious Tlayudas on the planet and serving up a smile, red lipstick and all, to her customers. In this close-knit, small town of maybe a 1000 people, I found a community proud enough to use their tax dollars to throw themselves a gigantic birthday party in their central park. I found little girls dancing on the toes of their fathers to a live meringue band, proud teenage boys playing the brass instruments on stage, grandmothers unabashedly dawning their traditional garb of their Mayan heritage, and all of them welcoming three bicycle-toting outsiders with wide open arms, inviting us to join the party. I thought, perhaps, us Americans built on principles of diversity and freedom, could learn a thing or two from these people about inclusion.
In Rincon Bamba, I found Catarina, a mother of two, community leader and unknowing humble Feminist. She was diligently sweeping up the dirt-floor patio and burning the day’s trash away outside the pueblo’s preschool where she worked as the Oaxaca sun slowly set over the rolling, coastal hills of her homeland. We slowly pedaled over and began to recite our now well-rehearsed explanation - yes, we are actually traveling on bicycle, we need a place to camp, we have all of our own equipment. Before I even had time to proudly deploy my Spanish subjunctives, she responded “En mi casa, sera, por supuesto.” Catarina’s husband, Gregorio stood a bit behind her, listening onto the conversation humbly, to whom Catarina apparently did not need to ask any kind of permission. Catarina, Gregorio, and their 4 year old son Emiliano walked us from the preschool a few calles over to their house where we would set up our tent under their thatch roof, rinse ourselves off in their wash basin pulling water from the well, and eat fresh papayas Gregorio had harvested that morning from the plantation where he works seasonally to supplement the humble income he gets from growing corn on their land.
As the night breeze set in, along with a gust of routine exhaustion that kicks in around 8:30 every night after a long day of riding, Gregorio swung in the hammock and told me his story of crossing the border, stories that unfortunately have become all to familiar in my traveling. With the changing climate as it is, the corn harvest just doesn’t seem to be enough anymore. And with NAFTA as it is, flooding subsidies into farmers’ arable land in the North only to feed our diabetes-ridden populations with more corn syrup, Gregorio couldn’t compete. He thought he’d follow the trend and see what he could make for his family ‘en el Norte’. They saved up, found a coyote to smuggle Gregorio across the border, and hoped for the best as Gregorio sought fruit-picking jobs in Florida and Virginia.
But what Gregorio found up here in what we like to call the homeland, well it wasn’t enough to keep him around, working hard all of those long hours and contributing into our local, state and national tax system. Despite the $3/hour (illegal in its own way), it just wasn’t enough to keep him away from his family - Gregorio returned home after only a year, trading in the economic gamble for emotional security of family and friends. I thought, perhaps, the Conservative movement of America could learn a thing or two from Gregorio and his family values. In Gregorio I found a proud, playful father of two strong sons. I found a genre-busting, non-machista man who cut fresh papaya for his wife, serving her at the table while she entertained guests, and washing the dishes afterwards, smiling on after her as she dominated the conversation with her dreams and community development goals. I found a man who woke at 4:30AM to beat the coastal simmering sun as he tended to his farmland and earned a living for his family, never complaining, always pulling himself up by his own bootstraps through the muddy waters of globalization and social injustice.
In Ocozocoautla I found three municipal policeman so proud of their city they put us up in central park and watched over our bicycles and our tent from sunset to sunrise. In more places than one along the journey, I found firefighters who opened their grassy space for us to camp, showers to clean ourselves, a chance to slide down the pole, and even a happy birthday serenade one night! In almost every stop along the way I found incredible chefs, some professional some simply undiscovered geniuses, adding a pinch of beauty and a touch of love in every dish, from chilaquiles to mole, con orgullo. In every place I found passionate people, engaged citizens, communities fighting for something, for anything. I found teachers demanding justice for the 43 students in Ayotzinapa, I found Zapatistas expressing civil resistance to globalization, I found indigenous fighting to maintain their culture.
So, Mr. Trump, I am just writing to share my humble opinion. I did not find those rapists and murders you speak of. I don’t doubt there are a few out there, and I’m grateful for all the kind people who protected me from danger along the way. But then again, at every stop along the way I also found a Mexican asking me about my culture’s violence, about the perpetuating gun violence in our country and the mass shootings that keep popping up on global news channels from thatch roofed houses to your Miami mansions alike. It seems, perhaps, we have a thing or to to learn about ourselves and our debilitating culture as well.
On the contrary to you and your fellow candidates’ beliefs (this one’s to you Ted Cruz!), I went to Mexico and I found warm, inviting, helpful, hard-working and brave people. I found an endless lineup of characters I will never know to name that gave me a place to camp, a shade tree to rest under, a cold slice of watermelon, or a bike pump. I found hospitality, kindness, charity, generosity, and inclusion - many values we may aspire to replicate here in the United States of America. I don’t know how to solve the immigration crisis, and I’m not going to pretend that I do. But I thought at the very least it should be known that the Mexico you tell us to be afraid of, to build walls against, whose immigrants you tell us we should equate to the criminals, well I just couldn’t find it.
Have you ever been to Mexico yourself Mr. Trump? I recommend it. If you keep your eyes open long enough, you may just find out that you’re an arrogant, unintelligent, soul-less asshole that is an embarrassment to our country.
