Homero, mi hermano

It would seem I underestimated the power of language. A difference in tongues creates plastic people--figures that look alive but have skin that is hard and cold. Deep in their eyes lie their souls but the things they do and say don't seem human. Some of the missionaries I have met who are only here for a short time and speak no Spanish have this view. I can tell. They wish to reach out, to connect, to set up some kind of LAN in order to communicate and see the souls of the Mexican people. But they can't. A firewall keeps knocking them down. Then when a language is learned, a spark seems to build up over time to warm and liquify the insides. I can see those around me are real--that they breathe and feel. But to me they are still covered in plastic wrap. I can feel their warmth, sweating underneath, trying to get out and touch me. Little by little, I peel away a layer and learn a new word. But there are still those low-whispered secrets, quick sparkling jokes, and sincere moments that I can't share. Even if I can tell them when I'm thirsty or that Miguel wet his pants, I can't show them who I am, what I feel, or what I believe. I am plastic too.

Then again, my friend Homero is almost completely real to me. He's the kind of guy who always buys pop for his friends and never rushes through breakfast. Everywhere we go, people know him and joke about the bad influence he'll have on me if I'm not careful. I wouldn't mind if it were true. Driving through the labyrinthine streets of Monterrey as if he'd left the stove on and the baby on the table, he seems like one born to walk the streets of this city. He bounces along the patchwork roads and buzzes around corners, dodging seven people with every turn. But then, when we go to the hardware store and everyone slaps him on the hand and greets him like he were passing out thousand peso bills, his smile seems more suited to a cafe in a tiny village where his boisterous laugh could be better recognised. Judging from the place where he has come from, any town would benefit from this man. I have been in the concrete hut his mother calls her home on the verge of the city, where everything is tied together with string and nailed down to keep it from sliding off the hill. I don't know why he took me there--maybe to show me how much wealth I have--maybe to show me how much wealth they don't have. I said hello to his Mama and brothers, trying to imagine what the house would be like with my family in it. Homero's own house is further down the hill, where the streets are a little straighter and the cinderblocks are painted shades of white and green. It's clean and comfortable enough. When I commented that I liked his house, he told me it was small (pointing out the relative truth that is different in every part of the world). I responded by telling him that I used to live in a house just a little larger, but with eight people. He seemed to like that very much and laughed when I said I used to spend a lot of time outside. In the morning, he always offers me some of his amazing breakfast that is made by his wife and probably doubles his cholesterol with every bite. I don't know if I should laugh or cry every time he eats another taco. But when we go to pick up the ninos from school and I'm supposed to get them in line but none of them is listening to me, he comes up, gives them all spankings, and I know he's my friend.