Children of the Revolution

There was bound to come a time when the people of Cosoleacaque would make marriage comments: Tuesday was the day. In honour of the bicentenary of Mexican independence, and a celebration of Mexican revolutionaries, Tuesday was designated as ‘grito’ day in my school. The Grito is a call to war, a revolutionary speech ending with ‘Viva Mexico!’ and the ringing of a bell. And for Mexicans it’s a huge deal. It also gave me the perfect opportunity to let all the women I know in the school dress me up like a traditional ‘Cosoleacaqueña’, with the traditional ‘refajo’ (folded skirt), plaits and smock top. It also gave all of the kids in the school even more of an excuse to stare at me and even surround me and just look up at me, in breathless anticipation of what I might be able to say in Spanish (which is increasing by the day but still isn’t anywhere near the level a grown adult living in Mexico should have). The costume, and my enthusiasm about anything local lead the deputy head to insist on introducing me to his nephew, in an unsubtle attempt at setting me up with a Mexican so they could snag a full-time native-speaking English teacher.

We first enjoyed the ‘convivio’, a meal shared with the class, then moved outside for the civic ceremony and the grito, out in the rain, with the open-air stage adorned with flags, bunting and the all-important bell. I thrust my fist in the air and bellowed ‘Viva Mexico!’ like the best of them (though paler and slightly more timid version than the best of them), and then the headmaster beckoned me on stage so everybody could basically clap, whistle and woot at my costume and my simple foreign presence. Then more food – obviously, this is Mexico.