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11/22/2008: "Mexico Used to Be Such a Conservative Country"
A New Mexico
Brian McNeece
The elderly gentleman sat in front of the TV in the auto shop waiting room. He was stylishly outfitted with a cowboy hat, guayabera shirt, khaki pants, and simple boots. His gray moustache finished off the picture of a dapper Mexican man content with retirement and in no hurry.
On the TV, a confident, buxom, and splashily decorated hostess stood center stage with a proud young woman. Outside the circle sat three young men in director’s chairs. Deeply significant music intoned in the background to let us know that the contestants were immersed in a life-changing decision: the girl was choosing which one of the men she wanted.
As far as I could tell, having joined the show in the final moments of the process, the qualities of each of the candidates had already been aired, most significantly their sign of the zodiac (which they wore on their chests). Hobbies, favorite foods, colors, etc. had also been discussed. Now she picked the man of her dreams. But wait! He got to pick back! And, oh my God, the stud on the end is shaking his head. The audience groans, and the young lady (expertly comforted by the beautiful but aging hostess) exits the stage.
In a jiffy another beautiful young contestant takes center stage. She knows what she wants in a man. He must like to cook; he has to like dogs. He must be sensitive, affectionate, but confident and strong. The serious music rises. It has the lugubrious, spacey tones of the sound track to a horror film.
The music stops; she chooses. He nods. The hostess invites him to join his new paramour. They embrace; they kiss. They more than kiss. Their heads gyrate, their mouths open. It looks like they’re trying to clean each other’s back molars with their tongues. The audience applauds wildly. Finally, the hostess pulls them apart like boxers out of a clinch. She announces that the show will pay for one date for the new lovers, and she wishes them well in the romance and true love in their fantasy future.
I’m shocked. I’m dumbfounded. Yeah sure, I grew up in the sixties. Some of you remember. Make love not war. The girls burned their bras, let the hair grow on their legs and said, “I am woman; hear me roar,” and the sexual revolution was on.
About the same time, in Mexico, a girl still needed a chaperone to go to the ice cream shop with her boyfriend. About that time, a Mexican girl who wore pants—much less short pants—was a sin vergüenza (shameless) and was risking her family’s reputation.
In some traditional Mexican families, the children kissed the father’s ring before they went out, as if he were the Pope, and he in turn made the sign of the cross over his daughter to protect her from malcriados she would soon encounter.
I was shocked at the display of frenzied necking on the TV, so I asked the stately señor next to me what he thought of this method for meeting someone of the opposite sex. I thought for sure he would echo my outrage at the brazenness of it, the total lack of decorum for such a sacred step in the courting ritual that would of course culminate in a perfect and blessed matrimony.
“Que bueno,” he replied.
Que bueno? I thought. Que horror! Without comment, I asked him how he had met his wife.
“We met in my pueblo way in the south,” he said with a wistful look in his eyes.
What were the circumstances?
“It was in the plaza. She was just walking along.”
Was it during one of the Sunday promenades? I asked.
“No,” he said, finally disengaging himself from the TV. “No. I saw her and it was like I just couldn’t help myself; I approached her and began to walk with her.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Fifty-three years.”
A new show begins with a “doctora” wielding a gavel in a courtroom. A young man and his former girlfriend stand at adjacent lecterns. He’d been sending her a couple hundred dollars a month for her and her mom. Found out she was seeing another guy. Stopped sending the money. Wanted some back. Big disagreement. Within a minute, both parties are screaming at each other just like on Jerry Springer, except in Spanish. “Liar!” “Shut up.” “Cabrona.” “Idiota!”
Mr. Retired Mexican sits in rapt attention, content to take in the drama of his new Mexico.
What had happened to the land of polished appearances?
The next day, I happened to be driving to Mexicali. Crossing the border, I glanced up at the billboard directly above the median. Three bikini-clad beauties lounged in inviting poses on the beach. The text said, “Cuando quieras”--Whenever you want. The message is clear: come to Mexico, the land of ready, nubile women who aim to please.
A new Mexico. Yes indeed.