The leaves on the redbud outside my window show the first
signs of autumn as they make the gradual transition from pale green to
translucent yellow. A summer of remodeling ends with new floors and bathroom
tile, a main floor bedroom with French doors to the backyard, as well as all
the unseen work of electrical, plumbing and heating upgrades.
It has been a summer of few outdoor activities such as
cycling and hiking, backpacking and car camping. Even writing has been limited –
only three blog posts since remodeling began in May. Still, I’m happy to share
that The
Ex-Mexican Wives Club is now in the very capable hands of Adam Bodendieck,
layout designer, and Loretta Matson, cover designer. If all proceeds as
planned, you’ll be able to add it to your holiday gift list!
This third memoir tells the story of my years as an
undocumented worker in Mexico at a time when crossing the border for citizens
of either nation was as easy as crossing state lines. It is a tale of people
and place, culture and politics that no longer exist. Early readers have said
it’s my best work yet. I’m excited to share it with you.
Here is the Author’s
Note that opens The Ex-Mexican Wives Club:
Odd how only a brief
period of time, just five or six years, can have a prolonged effect. How it can
feel that it must have been longer, a decade or two at least.
In my mid-twenties to
early thirties I was an undocumented immigrant working illegally in a
cash-based economy. I was an expatriate in Mexico City from January 1979 until
July 1984. For decades, vivid memories of sights, smells, and sounds of Mexico
have filled my dreams and surfaced when least expected or desired during waking
hours. For decades, I pushed those memories away, refused to speak the language
I’d once mastered, intent on being – becoming – a normal, middle-class,
American wife and mother, while having little idea what that meant. For
decades, no matter how deeply I buried the arts and crafts, the paintings and
books, the photographs and letters in the depths of the attic, the memories and
questions remained. Who was that young woman who went off on her own determined
to build a life for herself in Mexico? Why did she go and what brought her
back? What is her relationship to the me I have become over the intervening
decades?
The death of a dear friend,
a friend with whom I’d shared my Mexico years, a friend who could no longer
tell her story, led me to open that box of memory, a Pandora’s box of memory,
and write the memoir you now hold in your hands. I tell the story through
narrative as well as emails and Facebook messages, letters and journal entries
dating back to the late 1970s. I include these original documents with no
editing. All misspellings and grammatical mistakes in both English and Spanish
are found in the original documents. The variations in how I recorded the date
of each entry reflect my adaptation to the practice of placing day before month
and the use of Roman Numerals. Where the original documents are in Spanish, I
have either explained the meaning in the body of the narrative or added a
translation in the End Notes. Given that my Spanish was that of a language
learner, at times I translate my intentions rather than actual word usage.
Dialogue is reconstructed from memory. I’ve altered or omitted names for
stylistic purposes or to protect the privacy of those who might prefer such
things.
The title of this
memoir comes from a casual comment on a spring day in Hereford, England, during
one of my rare visits. Judi was telling her friend Tracey of the conversation
we’d had in London only days before with our friend Leandra, who much like Judi
and me, had once lived in Mexico and been married to a Mexican man.
“We shall write a
story of all our adventures,” Judi said. “The three of us together, each
telling her part.”
“Yes! And you shall
call it The Ex-Mexican Wives Club.” Tracey said.
The original club
members Tracey referred to on that brilliant afternoon in 2010 were Judi,
Leandra, and me. But as I began writing this memoir, I became increasingly
aware of the importance of a number of other women who were an integral part of
my life in Mexico City, and I realized they were honorary members of the “club”
whether or not they’d ever married or divorced Mexican men. These women include
Cathy, Katrin, Karen, and Julie – the California contingent. Evelia and Rosa
Esther – the Mexican women. Bev from Pennsylvania and Sylvie from France. A
club of eleven including myself.
Memory is a fickle
beast, especially forty-year-old memories. I tell this story of my lost years
to the best of my ability, a story placed at a time in Mexican history referred
to as La Década Perdida, The Lost Decade. In the process of exploring these
memories, I have had the joy of reconnecting with most of these women I once
knew in Mexico City. I am grateful to each of them for their willingness to
swap memories, for their encouragement, and for much-needed reality checks as I
pieced together a story that took place in a world that no longer exists. A
world changed by time and technology, by political and socioeconomic trends. I
write a personal history of a normal life, a life of tedium and tragedy, of joy
and loss, a story that is both universal and utterly unique in the manner of
all personal stories.
