Tear Gas

A few weeks ago, the Zocalo was transformed from a tranquil, shady plaza, a pleasant destination for strolling and listening to street musicians, into a hectic marketplace.  The walkways were invaded by a horde of traditionally-dressed indigenous women and  rasta-haired hippies who spread their wares on the ground.
'Oaxaca has enough handicraft markets,' I whined to myself, 'why do they have to be in my favorite spot?'
To me, the added color, did not make up for the crowded feeling , nor for the smell of frying  snacks.  I asked an acquaintance what happened.  As far as I could understand, he attributed the change to the newly elected Governor.  I assumed the new Governor relaxed the regulations to provide more attractions for tourists while at the same time increasing his popularity.  This evening, I realized again, how lack of language fluency can lead to wildly wrong assumptions, and leaves me still a visitor in a foreign town.

Before dusk, Adi and I went into the still warm air to shop for art supplies.   Walking towards the Zocalo we passed a large villa whose exterior was being painted.  We attributed the strange smell to the fresh paint. However as we moved on, the smell did not diminish and ours eyes began to water.
'Something is wrong'  I thought.
It took a while to register that most people were walking in the opposite direction, all of them with teary eyes.  Some were trying to cover their faces with shawls or handkerchiefs.
Coming towards us, I saw our Danzon instructor, his face red and puffy.  Although he did not want to linger, he explained that the police deployed tear gas to expel illegal vendors from the Zocalo.  Apparently persuasion did not work, and the police resorted to force.  It must have been quite a show of force, because six blocks away, we were still finding it hard to breath.  I could only imagine what was going on at the epicenter.
"Is this like 2006?"  I asked.
"Not exactly" replied Lucio.
This was not the appropriate time for a lengthy political discussion.  I suppressed my inclination to go the Zocalo. and turned back home.  It took a while for our eyes and throat to return to normal.

I guess the street vendors assumed that the change of administration is a moment of weakness, which provides them with an opportunity.  The 2006 uprising erupted in the Zocalo when the Governor clashed with the middle-class teachers union.  I doubt whether the squatters of today have this kind of political organization or will.  Meanwhile, I am feeling slightly guilty.  True, I wished them gone, but I certainly did not wish them to be drowned in tear gas.

Barely Acceptable

I was in eighth grade, and "Barely acceptable" stood out boldly on my graduation certificate.  It was my grade in the Art class.  Even while trying to hide my disappointment, I had to admit that this score, just barely above "Failed", may have been a generous gesture by the teacher.  For as hard as I tried, what showed on the sheets I grudgingly submitted, was painfully different than what I had in mind.  I have been carrying this trauma ever since.  Eventually, I learned to joke about it while sketching stick figures.

When Adi suggested we take a drawing class, I recognized that after a long life of analytical activities, this may be the chance to finally give my right brain a workout.  I reasoned that even if I didn't learn to draw, I would benefit from improving my observation skills.  Furthermore, paying more attention to detail may decrease the occasional forgetfulness.

It was with significant trepidation that I came to the Casa de la Cultura Oaxacena, and sat at the large paint-smeared table. All my public school frustrations were bubbling just below the surface.  The instructions for the first class were simple.  Take a large sheet of paper, use a pencil, and draw the cube in front of us.  I started to work, and it was more than an hour before I came up for a breath.  Time flew, and my apprehension was greatly reduced.  On the second class, it was a bottle.  This time, it took the entire two hours before I raised my eyes from the work.  I was totally exhausted from the intense concentration, and the anxiety was a thing of the past.  Surprisingly, my sketches resembled the models, and surpassed my own criteria for "Acceptable".  Over the next few weeks, my mental stamina increased, and with it, my concentration level.  As I  translated what my eyes saw, into the fine movements of my hand and fingers, I was transported into an isolation bubble.  I could not hear nor see anything that went on around me.  My absorption became a source of amusement for Adi and the other fellow students.

For the last project this quarter, we used pastel chalk to draw an object of our choice.  A razor is used to scrape the variously colored sticks onto a rough-surfaced sheet, and then using a finger, you rub the powder into the paper.  I am not sure what element in this style caught my fancy.  Maybe it was the freedom from the laborious task of  shading in pencil, or maybe it was the infantile urge to put my fingers in a colored mess.  Whatever the reason, the new media changed the game from an interesting challenge into challenging fun.  It's hard for me to believe, but the apples shown above, are my graduation piece.

Meanwhile Adi, who in middle-school had her own painful experiences with art, was also surprising herself with her new-found skills.  She did the pomegranates.  I think the difference between having fun and having talent is obvious.