The Kite Runner

(*Note: This entry was written on Sunday after getting back from our trip.)

Where to even begin.  I picked The Kite Runner off the bookcase in Alina’s room in Guanajuato as nightly reading material, thinking I could finish it before I headed back to Guadajalara and ultimately Culiacán, saving Twilight for later.  This was before I discovered the Used (English) Bookstore.  Once I made that discovery, I set The Kite Runner aside.  (I was also encouraged by Donna that it had been left by a previous renter, just like she would leave books, and not to worry about taking it.)  I picked it back up yesterday on the way to Culiacán from Guadalajara.  A 7 am flight from an airport 30 minutes away didn’t give me too much opportunity to read.  However, a 3.5 hour bus ride (even through curves) gave me just what I needed. 

The first half of the book, I kept getting the Sunnis mixed up with the other groups.  I kept wondering when it would become amazing, like everyone seemed to have told me.  Then suddenly, today on the ride home, it became breathtaking.  I literally found myself holding my breath multiple times.

Being the sensitive type, I was destined to cry in this book.  Having talked to Mom about it and listened to her say there was one part she couldn’t read, I found several parts that I shouldn’t have read, but had to.

I teared up on more than one occasion.  That led to more tearing up.  I closed the book relieved.  Wanting more, but relieved.

There are so many aspects of this book that touched me.  As I prepare to leave what I truly see as my home away from home, I felt a strange bond with the narrator.  A part of me being so American, while the other part of me strives to be more Mexican.  Clearly, neither my US life nor my Mexican life is anywhere near Amir’s bi-national life and the contrast between the two, but it hit me in a way it might not have had I not been traveling (and approaching my departure).

That sensitive thing also showed itself in the injustice in the book.  I spent several hours being really annoyed with Mexican culture today.  But when I look back, it wasn’t really Mexican culture, it was specific people who just got on my nerves.  In whatever language and whatever culture, I’m guessing these personalities would’ve just gotten to me (add to that I was tired, enough said).  But in the bigger picture, I think back to the Monster Trucks.  I think back to whoever’s statement it was about how I could never repay them the same way with an upgrade of seats or free entry somewhere, or a special meal because “they came from Mexico.”  It just doesn’t carry the same weight (or should I say isn’t as warmly welcomed) as when they introduce me as someone from the US.  It’s not that I’m anything special.  I think it’s more that the Mexican people just look for a reason to reach out and love you.  I’ve spent that last 9 years studying or teaching Spanish.  And for each of those years, I’ve traveled at least once to a Spanish speaking country, most years twice.  I’m well aware of the cultural differences and I’m careful, even within the US which words I use and how I phrase things.  I’m super-culture conscious.  At least when it comes to Spanish speakers.  However, that seems to only make me all the more aware of the closed minded people who still think all people that “speak Mexican” are from Mexico and therefore want to swim across an ocean to live in our amazing country.  I’m aware of the people who think the only Spanish speakers in the US are “Mexican migrant workers” (direct quote).  Their ignorance on these phrases isn’t even what gets me fired up.  It’s that thinking a Peruvian is a Mexican is some sort of shot.  That it’s embarrassing or shameful or somehow less than being a Honduran or Spaniard or whatever. 

I used to joke that I was offended because those are “my people,” but now it feels like no joke.  Those are my people.  That’s my family you’re talking about.  Those are the strangers who upon meeting me, made sure to give her friends my cell phone number so I would have a friend set, and who continued to check in on me from Podunk, Michigan to stop worrying I was miserable.  Those are the teachers who could’ve gone to work and been polite and called it a day, but instead took me to breakfast with their families and drove me to the hospital to get Tetanus shots.  That’s my friend who barely let me finish the sentence, “I’m not sure I’m happy where I’m living anymore and I think I need to look for something else,” before she said, “Come live with me.  Why wouldn’t you?  I’ve always wanted a sister.”

Everything I do here in these last two weeks will be sad.  Possibly my last Mercado taco.  Maybe my last shopping spree at Forum.  Perhaps my last time at this club or that bar.  Could be the last time I see this person before I come back to visit.

Obviously I’m nothing but huge tears right now.  My new friend set may get to see the alien Laura that comes after crying for longer than 4 seconds.  But that’s okay with me.  I’m thankful for every single tear that’s falling right now.  I’m thankful for the 18 times I’ll blow my nose before I go to bed.  I’m thankful for the swollen eyes and blotchy face I’ll have tomorrow.  I’m thankful for the hold in my throat right now that makes it hard to breathe, impossible to talk, and even a little difficult to cry.

What better measure of a year?