I was one of, if not the, coolest kid in school, the star player on my city’s soccer team, and had several close friends to hang out with after class and on the weekend.  As the self-proclaimed, yet uncontested, “king” of the first grade, I was the first to be picked for kickball and soccer at recess, I was the go-to authority for all things cool—which at the time included Pokémon cards, Lunchables, and catching bugs—my friend, Norrin, and I competed for the reputation of being the smartest kid in class on a daily basis, and not a day went by that I didn’t receive at least one anonymous note at my desk from a “secret admirer.”  Undoubtedly, life could seemingly not have been better for seven-year-old Joey.

At the time, my father was a mechanical engineer for General Motors and my mother stayed at home as a homemaker, tending to me and my two younger brothers, Zack and Andrew.  We lived in a modest, 2,200 square foot house in Saginaw, Michigan, drove average cars—my father a used Pontiac Bonneville and my mother a turquoise Chevy Astro van—and lived just your typical white, middle-class, coupon-cutting, suburban family life.  On the weekends, it was not unusual to have a soccer game on Saturday morning, take a trip to Papa and grandma’s house to visit, or stay at home doing yard work or other home improvement tasks until the mosquitoes came out.  Life was not fancy, glamorous, or exciting by any means; at the very most, it was comfortable, at the very least, it was “normal,” and without warning, it was all about to change.

The words “We’re moving” from my parents hit me and my brothers like a freight train.  As we learned of the unexpected news, thousands of thoughts started rushing through my 7-year-old brain.  Where could we be going?  Closer to Papa and grandma’s?  To D.C where Abuelo and Abuela live?  Somewhere cool?  California?  New York?  Hawaii?  What will our house look like?  Can I still have my own room?  I’ll have to make new friends.  Could we still visit the friends I have now?  Will dad make more money?  Can we have our own pool?  Amidst the onslaught of rapid-fire questions, scenarios, and possibilities I was mentally bombarding myself with, nothing could have prepared me for the response I received when I finally asked the golden question of “where?”  “Mexico” my parents replied.  “We’ll be living there for three to five years and dad will be launching a new assembly line at work.”  Frankly, at the time, I didn’t much care what my dad would be doing there, I was only concerned with how it would affect me and my own life.  The fact that I would have to uproot and dispose of every bit of the reputation, respect, and friendship that I had fostered since preschool in the interest of moving to a foreign country for the benefit of my dad’s career brought tears to my eyes.  Not only would I not know anyone there, I didn’t even speak the native tongue necessary to meet new people.  The prospect of me enjoying the forthcoming experience seemed grim as I literally could not decipher a single pro to the situation amidst the sea of inherent cons.  The opportunity for discovery, personal reinvention, and scenic exploration were far from my closed-minded radar of possibilities.  Life, as I knew it, was not longer so good.

The few months following the reception of such awful news came and went like an unrecognizable blur characterized by a slew of going away parties, moving boxes, and what felt like the last supper with various groups of friends and family.  The uncertainty of what was to come stressed me to no end as I pictured my life in Mexico being drastically different from my situation in the U.S.  In my head, I imagined myself having to live in a similar situation to what I had seen on television—sad, hungry, children begging for food and money, deprived of basic nutritional and medical needs.  Though I didn’t exactly expect to be living on the streets, I did envision inhabiting a small, cramped, ranch-style house unequipped with air conditioning, playing soccer on a dirt field with my neighbors, and coming home in the evening to a bland and basic meal.  Our TV would have two bunny ear-like antennas that would constantly need to be adjusted to maintain a single, blurry channel broadcasted in Spanish, and we would have to pump water from a well in the backyard so that we could drink and bathe.  I had heard that Mexico was a poor country, so I attributed this reputation to being the case nationwide—for every citizen.  My dramatic and ignorant presuppositions told me that I would go from a comfortable and happy life in the states to living like a comparably necessitous, lonely, second-class citizen in Mexico as I had persuaded by American media that this was the norm.    

In an effort to learn the basics of the Spanish language and Mexican culture prior to the move, my mother, brothers, and I spent three weeks at the Cincilingua International Language School in Cincinnati, Ohio.  For eight hours per day, we worked one-on-one with a personal language instructor in an attempt to learn basic nouns, verbs, and grammatically correct conjugation.  I’m sure my mother’s course was significantly more rigorous than mine, but my class effectively consisted of watching various Mexican TV commercials broadcasted in Spanish and trying to decipher what was being said.  In addition, I was shown multiple popular American music videos that had been translated into Spanish with English subtitles on the bottom of the screen.  If I behaved well that day, I was rewarded with the opportunity to go for a walk outside with my instructor to “explore” and “learn outside of the classroom” which I translated to “go get ice cream and tour the city.”  Nevertheless, I did assemble a basic toolbox of conversational one-liners to at least initiate communication with someone who could potentially be my future foreign friend.

Finally, the day had come for us to bid farewell to the U.S and hop on our flight to Mexico.  Awaking at the crack of dawn, my family and I said goodbye to our Saginaw home on Nottingham Drive for the last time.  Three flights and fifteen hours later, we landed in Mexico City, Mexico.  To my surprise, when we arrived, the airport was not dirty or stricken with homeless beggars as suspected.  The streets were paved, there were billboards and advertisements everywhere, and the city had skyscraping buildings just like the ones we had seen in Cincinnati the week prior.  The airport itself was also quite formidable in its scale and grandeur in comparison to my initial expectation.  Jetlagged and anxious, however, we retrieved our bags from baggage claim and continued on our way to the new place that we would call “home.” 

The driver of our taxi was named Juan and, as he would tell my father (in Spanish), had been working as a driver for over thirty years.  His small, grungy, early 90’s Nissan Sentra reeked of cheap cigars, booze, and regret while the car’s worn cloth seats were torn and stained from years of use/abuse.  Upon a quick examination of the car, my father and I were not amused as we noticed a slew of dents and paint scuffs throughout the vehicle’s exterior and what appeared to be a bullet hole on the rear, driver’s side door.  The car’s tires were worn well beyond the tread wear indicator bar so much so that you could actually see parts of the structural metal wires that hold the tire together and give it its basic shape.  Far from impressed, my father looked around for an alternative option, but surprisingly, Juan’s car looked exceptionally clean in comparison to some of the other vehicles that were immediately available.  With few options and reduced patience due to sleep deprivation, we opted to continue on our homeward-bound journey with Juan.

With little regard for the fact that he, two adults, and three young children were packed like sardines inside his outdated, undersized Nissan, Juan drove through the city like he was being chased by a drug cartel.  As he zigged and zagged through traffic at speeds far exceeding the legal limit, my thrill meter began to rise as car after car out the window was passed as if it were standing still.  My dad, being the conservative, safety-conscious individual that he is, incessantly asked Juan to slow down and even to stop the car at one point but it was to no avail.  Eventually, we entered more regulated and speed-enforced territory and Juan was forced to slow down.  With this reduction in speed came a new sense of calm and a feeling of admiration for the scenery that could now be seen and appreciated around us. 

The roads, we came to notice, were paved with brown and gray cobblestones and, though aesthetically pleasing, were very rough and uncomfortable to drive over.  As we reached more suburbia-like housing outside of the city, we noticed that rather than individual houses sitting on open plots of land like in the U.S, each property was sectioned off and surrounded by tall, cement walls with iron gates in front of each driveway.  After nearly an hour and a half of cramped, uncomfortable car ride, we finally turned onto our new house’s street, Jurica Boulevard.  As the cab progressed down the road, the houses started to get bigger and bigger to the point that they began to look like American mansions.  House after house was passed by and eventually it got to the point that my brothers and I started to no longer appreciate what we thought to be a continually cruel joke being played by our parents.  As the cab drove on, my dad then pulled a garage door opener from his travel bag and handed it to me.  He told Juan to slow down and with each approaching house I was to press the button and see if it opened the front gate. 

This turned into a bit of a game with the element of trial and error and the supposed eventual “winning” of a prize—our new house.  After six houses, six clicks, and six failed openings, however, the game became increasingly less fun.  Then we arrived at a seventh house.  My dad told Juan to stop the car for a second while we all looked at it.  Just based on its sheer size in comparison to our Saginaw home, my brothers and I all glanced at one another as if this was the grandest joke of them all.  Beyond the black, steel bars that encompassed the grand, two door swinging gate was an enormous yellow and white mansion-looking behemoth of a house.  With a grin of shear admiration, I looked to my parents with a sort of “you’ve got to be kidding me” expression on my face, in disbelief that this could actually be our house.  With nothing to lose, I hopingly clicked the single, gray button of the garage door opener and watched with delight as the gates swung open.

“Welcome home” my dad said.  As the chain-driven motor of the gate jerkily pulled back the massive iron doors, my jaw again dropped out of awe for the sheer enormity of the house.  Juan then pulled the taxi around the brown, circular, cobblestone driveway and under the awning that shaded the area in front of the house’s front door.  After unloading our suitcases, paying Juan, and seeing through that the front gate was again firmly closed, my dad turned the key to the front door’s deadbolt and opened the door to what was now our new reality.

 
The house was huge—like movie star/rapper/professional athlete house huge.  Because it was not yet furnished, it was easy to see and truly appreciate how big and open the house and its floor plan really were.  When standing in the front entryway, we were met by an in-wall fountain that gently trickled a thin, clear film of water down its series of layered rocks.  Though soothing and a nice first impression, I was more interested in what the rest of the house had to offer beyond water features.  From there, the main hallway lead to the right where a large glass-door-enclosed office was your first stop.  The room was large in scale and outfitted with swirly white marble tile.  Its size easily allowed ample space for both my father and mother’s desks as well as for a bit of storage for files and other office supplies.  The office was far larger than any other we had had in the past and proved to be just the beginning of many more impressive things to come.

The next room down the hallway on the right was a large bedroom outfitted with its own full bathroom, walk-in closet, and a wooden spiral staircase that lead to another room on the second floor.  This would later become my brothers’ room and the room lead to by the spiral staircase became mine.  Interestingly, the master bedroom of the house was also on the ground floor and was accented by an enormous master bathroom with a Jacuzzi, two walk-in closets, and a sliding glass door that lead out to the backyard.

Continuing down the main hallway, the path opened up into a massive open area separated by hardwood and tile flooring.  This was strange and different to me because in Saginaw, every room and hallway was covered with carpet except for the kitchen which was linoleum.  In this new house, however, everything was either tile or hardwood throughout.  The reasoning for this, as my dad would explain, was that insects and other creatures, particularly scorpions and tarantulas, like to camouflage themselves in carpet as well as lay their eggs within the bristles to hide and protect them from predators.  With this new information, I was now not only grateful for the house’s lack of carpeting, but also petrified of potentially encountering a real, live scorpion.  With my attention piqued and my eyes peeled for anything that moved, I cautiously wandered upstairs to continue exploring.

The second floor consisted of a main family room area that branched off into an in-home gym, a playroom, two bathrooms, and three bedrooms including mine.  From the large family room windows on the second floor, one could look outside to the front yard and beyond, through the gate, onto the street.  From the upstairs catwalk, you could overlook the open living room and dining room areas below as well as look through the large glass windows into the backyard.  This initial view outside is what made the whole day’s worth of traveling feel worth it.

Outside, in the backyard, sat over an acre of luscious green grass, blue skies, and my favorite part of all, a swimming pool. The pool was outfitted with a fountain and a diving board and was gated in by a red, wrought iron fence.  With my imagination soaring, I could see myself jumping in on a hot day, performing flips and cannonballs into the water, having splash contests, and throwing pool parties—the possibilities seemed virtually endless.  Beside the pool also sat half of a basketball court and a cabana fitted with a huge outdoor grill, dining area, and bar.  The entire property was lined with a small orchard’s worth of fruit trees which included oranges, limes, bananas, pears, and figs that were fresh and ripe for the picking.  In all, the house’s 8000 square foot enormity sat on one acre of walled-in seclusion.

In going from a 2,200 square foot, two story house in Michigan to such an 8,000 square foot behemoth, maintenance and cleaning became much more of a challenge than initially anticipated.  After we had finished unpacking and finally settled in, we then hired a maid named Manuela and a gardener named David to help with the upkeep of our house.  David was a slim and extremely tan middle-aged man who came to our house every weekday to clean and maintain the pool, and to groom the yard.  He cut the grass twice per week with our push lawnmower and washed our cars daily.  He also conducted minor electrical work, was responsible for pest control, and picked fruit from the trees for us to eat.  I rarely saw David as I was normally at school when he came to work, but on the rare occasion that we did interact, he was very friendly and pleasant to interact with.  As a perk to having David around, our weekends no longer had to consist of yard work and home improvement tasks.

Manuela was our maid and lived with us in the house Monday through Friday.  She was given her own bedroom and bathroom, which were next to the kitchen, and my dad bought a television for her so that she could watch her soap operas while she was away from home.  Manuela’s responsibilities included doing laundry, cleaning the house, making beds, and washing dishes.  She, like David, did not speak very much English but we were able to interact and communicate successfully, for the most part, through the use of hand signals/gestures.

This divide in communication, however, nearly got one of my brothers, if not both, stung by a scorpion.  One day, while my mother was out shopping for groceries and I was at my friend Sam’s house after school, my brothers, Zack and Andrew, were at home playing in their room.  At one point during their playing, they both ended up in the large toy container filled with stuffed animals and pillows.  As their playing got increasingly more intense and loud, Manuela came to their room to check and see that everything was ok.  Upon her entering the room, the large bin that they were playing in tipped over, spilling all of the pillows and stuffed animals onto the tile floor.  With everything spread out and my brothers amongst the container’s contents, to her horror, Manuela spotted a 5-inch-long scorpion crouched less than two feet away from where Andrew stood.  Being so engrossed in their playing/wrestling, however, my brothers were not aware of their surroundings or the danger of the situation.  In an effort to get Andrew and/or Zack’s attention, Manuela began clapping her hands loudly and saying my brothers’ names, which, momentarily made them pause to try and decipher what she was trying to communicate.  Confused by her attempts to gesture the movements of a scorpion and to, in turn, get out of the dangerous area in question, Zack and Andrew continued their playing postponement to analyze the situation for themselves.  In the meantime, Manuela dashed to the kitchen and grabbed an aerosol can of wasp spray to douse the scorpion in.  Seeing what was happening, Zack and Andrew quickly fled on top of their respective twin beds to both watch the action and search for other scorpions from a relatively safe distance.  It took the entire can of wasp spray to inhibit the eight-legged intruder, but it finally gave way and stung itself to death before it could hurt anyone.

School in Mexico was also an interesting experience that differed greatly from that of school in Michigan.  I attended the John F. Kennedy American School of Mexico in Queretaro as an entering second grader.  It was a private elementary, middle, and high school that mostly catered to wealthier Mexican families and Americans living abroad.  My brothers and I were required to wear a school uniform that consisted of a white polo with an embroidered JFK logo, navy blue dress shorts or pants, and white tennis shoes each day.  In the morning, I would get dropped off by my mother at the main entrance gate and picked up at the end of the school day.  To me, given my initial presuppositions of life in Mexico, it was unusual to be attending an upper-class educational institution that was coincidentally named after a former United States President.     

On the first day of school, I was met at the front gate by a short, full-figured woman named Ms. Estelle.  Ms. Estelle looked to be in her late forties and had wavy brunette hair with blonde highlights.  The smell of cigarettes radiated from her dark, baggy clothing and her face was noticeably aged from the habit.  Aware that I was new to the school, she greeted me with a raspy, albeit friendly, voice and a kind smile as she welcomed me to JFK.  As we briefly walked around the school viewing the highlights of campus and talking, Ms. Estelle explained to me that she was the 2nd grade’s English teacher and that hers would be my first class of the day.  She also told me that her English class was the only class I’d have that was taught in English, and that everything else (math, science, computer, art, Spanish, and social studies) would be taught in Spanish.  This freaked me out as I was under the impression that JFK was an American school for American students i.e. its classes would be taught in English just like they are in America.  With this new, unexpected information, however, the JFK experience got a little more interesting.  

As time would tell, I excelled in Ms. Estelle’s English class; not only was this due to the fact that English had always been my best subject, it was also because her class was the only one that I understood.  My prowess in English class, however, did not translate to success in any of my other classes.  Mathematics, for example, was taught by señora Paloma who strictly spoke Spanish and wore a lot of perfume.  As an English speaker with little-to-no comprehension of the Spanish language and an already established weakness in math, it felt as if I was learning two different languages in the same class.  Even so, señora Paloma seemingly made it a point to call on me regularly to answer questions though I could not so much as even understand what page of the book we were on.  During group work, I was all but useless as I could not decipher what the problems were asking.  My classmates took my inability to interpret the assigned word problems as a sign of stupidity and incompetence which did not help my cause in the least.  Aware that I was American, my classmates’ expectations of my intelligence far exceeded those set for one another and after seeing me struggle week after week, I was labeled as an “idiota.” (idiot)
 

The structure of how the school day was organized at JFK was also very different from what I had become accustomed to in the U.S.  Around 11am, after the first three classes of the day, students were let out of their classrooms and allowed to head to the playground for lunch and recess.  The interesting part was that, unlike in the U.S, these two activities were combined into one long hour of unmonitored freedom.  Students had the option to eat lunch (or not) and do practically anything else their hearts desired on the school’s campus while the teachers went out to eat; there were no recess aides, volunteer parents, or any other type of adult supervision to be had.  For the most part, I sat and ate my packed lunch alone while watching the other kids play tag, soccer, and have kicking fight competitions on the monkey bars.  I was never invited or asked to play, and when I did take the initiative to ask, the response was always that they already had enough people or that they simply did not want me to join.  This free-for-all of sorts, which was often controlled by the bigger bullies on the playground, left little opportunity for scrawny, white me to make friends through the playing of sports or inclusion in any other social activities.  It became the norm for me to eat alone, sit alone, and be the subject of ridicule and mockery by the other kids on the playground.
 

Because I was new and different in the eyes of my classmates, nearly everything that I did at school was scrutinized.  The fact that I was white, American, didn’t speak Spanish, looked dumb in math class because I didn’t understand what the teacher was saying, and didn’t have any/many friends made me a huge target for ridicule.  On top of this, the kids at school grew to resent me even more because, based on my parent’s cars, they thought I was rich.  When we moved to Mexico, General Motors gave our household two cars to drive during our time abroad.  My mother was given an extended, red Chevy Suburban and my father drove a Pontiac Sunfire GT.  Neither of these would have been considered anything more than standard in the U.S, but as we came to find out, there are only two kinds of people that drive such vehicles in Mexico: the “wealthy,” and drug dealers.  With this stigma, my family’s cars drew constant stares from other motorists wherever we went; simple trips to the grocery store, school, or dinner became needlessly more stressful and as word spread throughout my class of what my parents drove, more and more of my classmates grew unfavorable towards me out of uninformed jealousy.
 

Living in Mexico opened my eyes to the many differences that exist between life in the U.S and life elsewhere.  All too often, we as Americans take for granted the affordances given to us in our daily lives, not thinking about how good we really have it or, conversely, how bad others do.  My time living abroad gave me a different perspective of life in Mexico than the one portrayed by the media or told by vacationers as well as a wealth of stories and experiences that I love to share.  In the following pages, I look to tell just a few of the countless tales of hardship and difference that I have from my year and a half long stint in Queretaro, Mexico.