La Merced

Just yesterday I went with my family to a place called El Mercado La Merced here in Mexico City. For those of you who have never heard of this little treasure before, La Merced is an open market lined with crowded stalls overflowing with a rainbow of fruits, vegetables, candy, and “chucherias” (all at ridiculously cheap prices). When we first moved here, I had actually been told that this market is where all of Mexico City’s restaurants get their ingredients, usually ordering them early in the morning before the normal customers arrive.

And I can see why.

First of all, while I was accompanying my parents (and brother) on the stock-up-on-food-for-the-week trip, I was also there on a personal assignment. As part of my photography course at school, I was to take “environmental portraits” of people in the city just doing their own thing in their environment. The marketplace, of course, struck me as the perfect place to take just such pictures.

As you can imagine, then, there I was, wandering through the stalls, a basically-white-skinned girl in jeans and a t-shirt toting around a giant camera. Might as well put “TOURIST” on my t-shirt and be done with it. Never mind that I am, in fact, a natural-born Mexican. To the market people I was about as Mexican as Ricky Martin is straight.

Notwithstanding my obvious failure at blending in, walking through that marketplace was an experience that was altogether different, and more than anything, enlightening. So I wanted to share a few observations I made.

The first thing that I immediately noticed was the way I was treated. Not just as a tourist, but as a girl. Never have I been more aware of my gender than while walking in front of dozens of men behind the safety of their stalls. Now, I have to point out, that typically I’m pretty oblivious to this kind of thing. My brother is usually the one to warn me of men’s lingering glances and it immediately flips on his protective switch. I noticed, however, that while I was trying to take pictures, it was hard to feel completely at ease. I had to be on edge 24/7, hyper-aware of who was touching me and of where my purse was.

And then I thought, why? Why does my brother get to feel comfortable, not necessarily worrying about himself constantly, while I have to feel like I need to cover up, like I need to put an anxious layer between myself and strangers? I couldn’t even focus all of my energy on my pictures because men were constantly catcalling, wolf-whistling, and coquettishly calling out “Hola guerita” to me.

It seems so wrong to me that some men feel that it’s okay to do these things. That somehow we’re flattered by them. And this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed this. Living in Mexico City, a place vastly different from the quiet suburbs of Houston, I have seen that men have no shame in blatantly eyeing you or catcalling you, something that makes me constantly nervous when walking down the street.

Now, on another note, I also observed that I was treated differently when I was behind the lens. This, however, was an incredible experience.

People opened up all of a sudden. The invisible barrier between customer and vendor that usually hinders a real connection from forming all of a sudden dissipated. Elderly women blushed and primped like teenagers when asked if they could have their picture snapped. Men teased each other and tried to get their friends to have their pictures taken. It was like the camera had a magic effect of waking up the life and humanity within each person.

Taking pictures of people laughing, with crinkles by their eyes and glittering smiles, I felt connected to them. I felt like we were on an even playing field. In Mexico, where the difference in class and the social stratification is still glaringly apparent, it’s hard for locals to feel like they can intermingle or even relate in any way to those who are technically “higher class”. But that day in the market they treated me like I was a friend, a family member. And that was an unforgettable feeling.

I also noticed that, by taking pictures, I was able to observe and appreciate a lot more. In the marketplace, where the stalls become blurs and there is constant movement, it’s hard to take a moment and really take in the splendour of the rich colours, the fragrant spices, and the beautiful bounty of each stall. But being forced to stop, to converse with the stall owners, and capture their image, I was able to physically pause and look around me, soaking up the wonderful experience.

Being able to observe, however, was both a blessing and a curse. When driving out of the market, I noticed a group of girls standing on the side of the street. They looked to be in their mid-to-late teens, some only a couple of years older than me, dressed in worn black leggings and jersey crop tops, a tattered umbrella on each of their shoulders.

They were prostitutes.

It was a stark scene to see, something I had only ever read about in articles. The looks on their faces, a tired, heavy look, an amalgamation of shame and pride, made them look years beyond their age. I watched as a man in his late forties approached one of them, whispering in her ear. It made my gut wrench thinking about what they have to face. It made me really take a hard look at my own life, at how fortunate I am, how privileged I am, how all of my own struggles are nothing to what these girls are forced to endure. Most of them are there to earn money for their families, for the daily food on their table. They didn’t get to choose the life they lead, they were born into unfortunate circumstances.

Life is such a crapshoot. Some of us are lucky enough to be born into warm homes, with all of our problems seemingly solved since day one. Some of us aren’t so lucky. But I’m thankful that I am allowed to have experiences like this, because, while it’s hard to be a bystander to them, they help me understand and appreciate what I have been given. They help me count my blessings, and I learn more than I could ever learn from an article I read online.

And with that thought, I leave you friends.

Regina L.