4 de julio

There's nothing better to bring together the American expatriate community than a good old fashioned Fourth of July get together. Even better when it's run by veterans, I thought hailing a taxi to American Legion Post 3 (where are posts 1 and 2 I wonder?) on the outskirts of Guadalajara. This Sunday also happened to be one of the most important days for sports fans around the world, as Italy squared off against France in the World Cup championship game. This fact was not lost on my taxi driver, who made up for the fact he had to work on championship day by installing a television in the passenger side sun visor. His eyes focused more on the screen than on the road, he lumbered his way through traffic, occasionally driving at breakneak speed only to slam on the brakes when we hit the next clump of traffic. After asking some clueless fruit vendors, we finally found the American Legion on a cobblestone street past a church where services were just letting out.

At first I was surprised to see so many Mexicans at the event; later I learned that for a measly 100 pesos a year (10 dollars) anyone can become a socio (partner, i.e. non-voting social member) of the Legion, which entitles them to cheap beer and entrance to Legion events. This fact readily explained the two gaudily made-up Mexican barflies, whose only intention at this event was to find a nice white-haired vet to make their sugar daddy. I stole a long glance at one of these women --made up like a cross between a circus clown and Elvira-- but one that was more out of fascination with the weird than any kind of infatutation. In response, she tossed her hair and gave me a red hot stare that continued until I moved to the opposite end of the picnic ground.

Most of the Mexican women in attendance, however, were already happily married to their own heroic and, more importantly American, legionnaire (as in a member of the American Legion, not the disease). These were the type of veterans one would expect to see at any patriotic event in the U.S. --good old boys with salt-and-pepper or balding heads, white hairy arms, a few liver spots, and button-down Hawaiian shirts. In the U.S. such men would usually be flanked by a quiet, yet dignified white-haired old lady reminiscent of Ma Kent. But here, their spouses (or girlfriends in some cases) were quiet, yet dignified Mexican women, beaming with the pride of being so American. Even before I talked to a skin-sagging old man who told me he left the U.S. because of "domestic problems," I gathered that a lot of these women were second wives.

At first the pomp and circumstance of the ceremony bored me, but gradually I began to notice how satisfied the Americans appeared while listening to the National Anthem, big smiles plastered on their faces. For these expatriates, the annual Fourth of July celebration was one of the few ways left to connect with their country. This was not the kind of your-with-us-or-against-us patriotism so common today in the U.S.; it was more primal than that, an urge to celebrate a country and way of life which had given these people so much.

When the ceremony was over, I hitched a ride with my boss, the paper´s co-publisher TH, in the back of his pickup. In the front seat next to him was his mother, in the late stages of Alzheimer´s; in the back (of course) TH´s Mexican girlfriend and her two young children. From time to time, the little boy in the backseat would make a face at me, and I responded, although I think I scared him a little bit. It felt good to be out in the open, bracing myself against the wheelchair as the wind pummelled my face. As we moved further into the city, we passed through a number of tunnels and finally came to a stop in front of a decrepit-looking old folk´s home. As TH helped his mother up the stairs, I felt sorry for him; he now seemed more real to me than the overweight laugh machine which he had previously been. Without being asked, I brought the wheelchair up to the landing, and watched as he unquestioningly brought it inside.