This story needs a little background. Penelope commented about my last post and said:

“Was there NOTHING you appreciated about this country - read your comments to a group of Mexican and foreign ladies this morning - their response, oh well, another "feo gringa" read, ugly American. Adios.”

In response to Penelope who calls me an Ugly American, I know I should let the scab heal and fall away to leave me with yet more flawless skin, but nothing pleases me more than fondling a bumpy, crispy, bubbly flesh wound.

How I love to work my fingernail underneath the edge of the crunchy scab and slowly pry the fried skin from the top of the wound, separating the toasty top from the soft skin below. It gives me wild pleasure to spend hours digging and lifting until the scab finally rips from the flesh, and I surreptitiously slip the nubby pleasure into my mouth.

The gooey reddish fluid that holds the scab to the skin does not do much for me, but oh, how I love the taste of a crunchy scab – the bigger the better. I’m not saying that I would eat your scab, but my scabs taste better than lightly battered and pan-fried soft shell crabs. So, while I should let my Mexico displeasure pass like a wound derived from a bike fall, I can’t resist the opportunity to pick the scab and taste the bloody mess that has coagulated on my soul.

The only danger in picking a scab is gauging whether the scab is ripe enough to eat and savor like a focaccia crustini with fire burned peppers over an herb ricotta spread. Of course, if the scab has not cooked long enough, the taste is way too fluid and the bloody mess is reminiscent of quiche that has been in the oven for a few moments – runny eggs are icky.

While Penelope’s scab might not be ripe enough to rip off and eat, I’m going to give it taste. What this scab tastes like to me is a group of expatriates mingled with some socially prominent Mexicans who passively bolster an oligarchic government. Precisely, in my view, there was nothing beautiful about seeing poor Mexican people suffer while relatively rich people rode upon their backs demanding mole and margaritas.

I could be wrong, but what irks me about Penelope’s “Feo Gringa” comment is that while it might be true that I am an Ugly American, I’m staying in the USA and am not running away to Mexico, dragging with me a suitcase full of limousine liberal politics that make me feel good while I watch a poor man with rotting teeth sweep the dust off my patio. I am not moving to Mexico and celebrating the fact that domestic help is cheap. I am keeping my Ugly American ass right here in the tumultuous USofA and actively participating in the prevention of the prevailing political tide that is trying to turn America into the next Mexico by transferring wealth into the hands of a few at the expense of the whole.

What really pissed me off about Mexico was that the poor people didn’t seem to care that they were being exploited. They almost seemed complacent. The woman who held a nursing baby on her knees while a toddler sat quietly at her feet as she strung millions of teeny-tiny beads onto a string to make elaborate beaded animals made me mad. How did this woman manage composure and why didn’t she find a voice in her art to express her discontent? Don’t give me the flimsy answer that the woman was happy with her life and was living with grace because there is no way I believe this woman loved stringing beads and starving her children.

I know there are plenty of countries with starving populations, but it seems like the rich and poor have worked out a “don’t ask don’t tell” arrangement in Mexico. The poor take what they are given and don’t demand more. It reminds me of Dr. Seuss’s book “The Places You Will Go” when he writes:

…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
Or a bus to come, or a plane to go
Or the mail to come, or the rain to go
Or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
Or waiting around for a Yes or No
Or waiting for the hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Get on with it, Mexico! Demand some equality. Unite, organize, fight.