As a consequence of my work with a private school system in Mexico, I was invited to attend a social function at the residence of the United States Ambassador to Mexico in Mexico City. It was a semi-formal affair attended by dignitaries not only from the American Embassy, multi-national banks, businesses and corporations, but also from many top-shelf Mexican entrepreneurial, social and political entities.
Although decked out in my best freshly pressed business suit and power tie, I must admit that I felt just a little out of place rubbing shoulders with that distinguished cohort of the international who’s who. Richly dressed and bejeweled socialites moved about gracefully nursing long-stemmed glasses of adult beverages as they conversed with and sought to be seen with all the “right” people. As I sipped my ginger ale, I tried to keep from grinning as I observed the spectacle playing out before my eyes. Apparently my lowly position as an educator did not merit their time as they would move on quickly upon discovering that I wasn’t really anybody worthy of their attentions.
Upon arrival, after someone whisked our cars away, we had walked through the lavishly manicured grounds and were greeted at the door of the Ambassador’s mansion by a very polite and servile gentleman who asked each of us to identify ourselves. The highlight of the evening for me was, upon exiting the affair, that same gentleman was again at the door where he addressed each of us by name and thanked us for coming. Without benefit of any notes whatsoever, he remembered each and every name along with the organization each represented. There must have been in excess of 200 people in attendance. I was impressed.
The very next day I accompanied my father to a remote mountain village to look at a potential building site for a school. We were met by a slightly stooped old gentleman wearing homespun whites and huarache sandals. He warmly took our outstretched hands in both of his rough, calloused hands and welcomed us with an eagerness and sincerity that touched our very souls. Dad later commented that we could not have been better received if we had come to a local parish as representatives of the Pope.
He led us to the front door of his shanty that was built of sticks protected by a roof of thatch. A beautiful, sumptuous bright red bougainvillea plant in full bloom engulfed most of the tiny house and was obviously well cared for. The dwelling was fenced by nopal cactus sporting huge “tunas” or cactus fruit intended to keep the pigs and other critters out of the yard and vegetable garden.
The floor of the house was of hard-packed earth and the entire dwelling was spotlessly clean. It was furnished with a rustic table and mis-matched straight-backed wooden chairs. The old gentleman proudly introduced us to his daughter and her bare-footed but well-scrubbed, tousle haired children. Although very humble, these folks proudly gave us a walking tour of their village pointing out its eccentricities and virtues while suggesting potential building sites for a school.
Anticipating our arrival the family, along with friends, neighbors and fellow members of their church, had prepared a banquet for our benefit. They had dug a pit and lined it with rocks where they built a fire of mesquite wood. After the rocks were sufficiently heated, they wrapped a piglet in banana leaves and placed it in the hole which they had then covered with soil to let it bake overnight. Even though they obviously had but little, these folks regaled us with pork tacos made from that little pig, wrapped in warm, fresh tortillas. In fact, we watched as some of the women took little balls of blue and green corn meal masa, hiked up their long skirts and patted them out by hand on their brown thighs. Afterwards they heated the colorful tortillas over the coals of a small fire on a sheet of tin supported by rocks. They smiled bashfully as they gave their very best to serve their big city visitors. We ate frijoles, spiced rice, fresh pineapple, the ever-present jalapenos and other fruits and veggies that complemented that roasted piglet. I must say, I may have had equal or even better barbecue prepared by Hill Country experts, but I have never eaten it in the company of more delightful hosts.
I feel it a rare privilege to have been in the residence and in the presence of the American ambassador and his invited guests. I shall never forget it. But I must confess that I feel it to be an even greater privilege to have been the guest of those wonderful people in that little mountain village. I am sure the ambassador’s evening took a lot of planning and many people were involved in making it happen. But I am also sure that each was well compensated for what he or she did. They gave of their abundance. On the other hand, those people in that little village gave of their poverty much as did the widow who dropped her mite into the treasury.
Do clothes really make the man? Do wealth and position make the man? It is said that anyone can be polite to a king, but it takes a gentleman to be polite to a beggar (or an educator?). Miguel de Unamuno said, “It is not the shilling I give you that counts, but the warmth that it carries with it from my hand.” In that little village, I was abundantly recompensed by the warmth from many hands…
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