(Español versión publicada anteriormente en rojo.)

Neighborhood: Colonia Napoles/Del Valle

Photo taken by Storyteller #9

I looked at the gentleman coming toward me and thought, ‘He’s not likely to help me.’  But I stepped forward, card in hand, to talk to him anyway.  So far, not one businessman had agreed to help me.  They were, of course, all on their way to work.  However, when I told this man in his nice button down shirt and tie, that I was walking across Mexico in search of stories, he didn’t immediately say, “But I’m on my way to work.”  Instead, with a perplexed tilt of his head, he asked, “Why are you doing this?” 

“Well, I’m crossing Mexico City, asking people to walk with me and tell me a story.”

He smiled a little, “OK, I understand that, but what do you hope to accomplish?”

“It’s about friendship with Mexico and Mexican citizens.”

His look said, strange, strange but interesting.  “You see I’m just going to Starbucks now to get a coffee.”  Then to my surprise, he said, “OK, OK, I’ll walk with you and then get my coffee.”  This cheered me, and I said, “Thank you.  That is very nice of you,” and we crossed the street.

“You want to know about this avenue Insurgentes, huh?  Well, the name comes from the insurgents, not revolutionaries.  Revolutionaries are different, they are people who want change, want to overthrow the government.  The insurgents specifically wanted independence from Spain.”  He punctuated his point by raising his finger as if tapping the air in front of us.  I nodded and he continued, “Spain had come and taken everything, controlled everything, taxed everything.  The insurgents wanted Mexico to be it’s own country.  They had been treated unfairly for too many years, but it was a long fight.  So many people died.  So, this street is named in honor of those insurgents who fought for our independence.”

I still was not a hundred percent certain what the difference is between insurgents and revolutionaries, but I agreed with him anyway.

“Ah,” he tapped the air in front of us again, “Do you know about San Raul, virgen and martyr?”   I shook my head no,  “He was a virgin and a martyr.  So when a woman is pregnant she says, it’s a miracle.”  He chuckled and grinned.  He could see from my face that I didn’t get it, so he repeated, “San Raul, virgin and martyr…  So when a woman is pregnant,” he a gesture showing a big pregnant belly, “she says, oh, it’s a miracle.”  I finally understood that he was telling me a joke about when a woman wants to maintain that she is a virgin, she says it is a miracle of San Raul.  

“One more story.  Oh, here we are at my bank.”  We both looked at the big red sign saying Banorte.  “Well, you need to know about the Battalion of San Patricio,” he continued.  “It was a group of Irish soldiers in the Mexican-American War from the US who defected.  When they got here to Mexico, they thought, ‘Why are we fighting against these people?  They have done nothing wrong,’ and so they switched sides and fought for the Mexicans.”  He waggled his eyebrows, “Uh huh.  They could relate to the Mexican cause because of all they had suffered from the English.  At the end though, the US army rounded them all up and shot them.”  He squinted one eye and made his hands like they were shooting a riffle, his finger pulling the imaginary trigger.

“There is a plaque in the park down the street in their honor.  They are well remembered for helping Mexico, for being just.”  We exchanged a smile and I thought of those young soldiers deciding to switch sides, wondering in the mess that is war, exactly how they came to the decision.  In my mind, they were sitting around the fire, eating poorly cooked stew and arguing over what they are doing there.  Immigrants themselves, perhaps thinking, ‘What do we have against the Mexicans?  Why should be fight for the US?  These Mexicans seem to be good catholics…”

My overactive imagination cleared of this image, and I extended my hand to the nice businessmen.  “Thank you so much for your participation.  These are great stories.”

I left him to his banking business and thought about the connection you find between Irish and Mexican immigrants in the US, who often lived in the same neighborhoods, with the same religion.  This connection has residuals in my home state, such as restaurants with names like Carlos Murphy’s.  So it was interesting, indeed, to find that the connection existed over the border into Mexico.  Perhaps my bit of Irish blood will be welcome here.