Miguelina

Morocco: So Far From Suburbia III

She met us in full chador. 

How could I be sure we were meeting the same woman?  The truth is that I couldn’t, and that was part of the excitement.  That is the beauty of travel; doing things one would never do at home.  Would I follow a masked stranger into an unfamiliar alley in my hometown?  Of course not!  I would stick to safe places and routines.  Here I didn’t know what was safe and what wasn’t so it was all the same to us.

We followed her into a silent maze of streets, walls golden in the morning sun, her chador billowing in the breeze as she rushed deeper into the city.

Marrakech was like a time capsule, its history laid bare for us to see and touch, but I knew so little about it.  I wanted to learn more.

“Those are the baths,” she said in French, pointing at a crumbling building.  That was the extent of our tour.  The rest of the time we rushed behind her in silence, afraid of getting lost. 

We would see a person here and there - men dressed like wizards in full hoods and pointy shoes, women bringing laundry inside - but they never looked at us.  Still, I could feel eyes looking at us from behind curtains made from old bed sheets, so I knew we were not alone.

Eventually she stopped at a large building.  Most of it was painted light blue, then it just stopped and was cement gray.  It looked like someone had run out of paint and just left it that way.

The girl that had been with her when we got our henna tattoos was outside playing with a large sheep, trying to smooth its matted coat.  Our guide ignored the girl so we followed her inside.  The room was large enough to be a comfortable living room, but then I noticed that it was lined with twin mattresses and bedding was piled up against the wall to form makeshift couches.  There was only one door in the room – the one we had just walked through.  There were a lot of people in there and they were looking at us expectantly.  We waved shyly. 

No reaction.

Our guide went to a slight man dressed in white who was seated in a corner of the room and got on her knees.  She kissed his hands.

We looked at each other, unsure what to do.  We started to kneel when the man stood up and motioned for us to stop.

“There is no need.  It is not your tradition,” he said shaking his head.

English!  We were relieved and started to apologize for not dressing appropriately, for not having a chador, but we had just arrived and did not know where to find one…

He smiled and dismissively waved his hands.  Then he nodded at the woman who brought us to his house.  She got up and in one swift motion, took off her chador. She was a young girl – maybe 19 or so, just like us—not the older woman we had expected.  The man must have been her father.  It was then that I noticed that the other women inside the house weren’t wearing chadors either.  They wanted to make us feel at home, and for the first time, they smiled at us.

Our friend was a very pretty girl.  She had a wide, friendly smile and sparkly eyes.  She made sure we all sat down and served us tea while the rest of the family watched us from across the room.  We did our best to make conversation, but found that only the men and boys spoke English.  They asked us if we found Moroccans to be friendly and we had to laugh.  One of our friends was very popular with the taxi drivers and shopkeepers, and we had been jokingly offered up to 20 camels for her.

“She’s going for 20 camels at this point,” I said, pointing at the girl we had dubbed Ms. Morocco.

The ice was broken, and we sat down in small groups.  They asked us questions about life in Europe and America.  We asked them about life in Morocco.  They told us about the lavish weddings, and even pulled out family photo albums.  For a while, we felt right at home – all differences forgotten in the universal sharing of wedding stories.

At one point, all the men except for the father left the room.  I wouldn’t have noticed it, save for the desperate bleating of the sheep that the girl had been playing with outside.  The men dragged it to the front door and started singing as they struggled with it and held it to the ground.

Then one of the mustachioed uncles, a man who a few minutes ago had been laughing and drinking tea with us stood at the door with a large machete.  He went behind the sheep and slit its throat.  The animal’s blood spilled onto the tile floor, into our room, onto the feet of the men.  I was so shocked, I kept taking pictures (warning:  graphic, don't click on the thumbnails if you don’t like blood).

There were a few minutes of terrible silence, where my friends and I didn’t know what to do. 

This had been the reason we had seen so many sheep and goats on the train - Eid al-Adha – the family was recreating the biblical story of Abraham’s obedience when asked to sacrifice of his first-born son.  But what next?

The sheep was hung from the doorframe (our only way out for the room) so that all the blood could drain off its neck.  I couldn’t look at it anymore, and my stomach turned knowing that the logical next step was for us to eat the poor animal.  The women started lighting up coal stoves (indoors!  I was sure I would die of carbon monoxide poisoning!) and the men passed down raw cubes of meat to them. 

The meat cooked for less than five minutes, and then it was put on a plate besides some bread.  Our hosts graciously waited for us, the guests of honor, to take the first bites.

I closed my eyes and chewed into the vilest piece of meat to ever cross my lips.  To this day I cannot eat lamb without my stomach turning.

I was wrong about the carbon monoxide poisoning.  I was sure that instead I would be eaten alive by the worms that were surely infesting the undercooked meat I had just swallowed.  But what could I do?  There was a man with a bloody knife blocking our exit.

So I ate it all.

Our guide wanted to give us a gift when we finished lunch.  She gave us Moroccan makeovers and made up our eyes with her precious khol powder.  I wanted to give her a gift to thank her, so I dug into my backpack and found a gold lipstick tube.  I gave it to her, and she hugged me in gratitude. 

Soon, it was time for us to go back.  We said goodbye to our new friends, refused the offer of food for later, and headed out onto streets that suddenly didn’t seem so unfamiliar.

Children were outside playing soccer.  Upon closer inspection, I noticed that instead of balls they were kicking charred sheep’s skulls.  It was like a scene in hell's playground, but we were getting used to this strange land. 

Later that day we headed out for the Sahara.  We were done with the city and crossed the Atlas mountains, marveling at their unfamiliar vistas, to travel deep into the desert on the back of camels.  We traveled with Bedouins with only a comet to light up the dark desert sky.

PART I

PART II

Tales From The Fridge

UPDATE:  Last night, after spending another hour on the phone with GE I was informed that the part we needed was out of stock and that they couldn't service my fridge until next week.  Which would put me at 20 days without a refrigerator.

That is the point where I LOST IT.  I don't even know what I said on the phone, but it must have been pretty scary because a repairman was at my house by 8 AM today.  With the part that supposedly was out impossible to get until next Wednesday.  "I just happened to have one in my truck.  What a coincidence!" he said.

I don't see another GE appliance in our future is all I'm saying.  I know that you can all sleep better at night knowing that I can finally buy some ice cream. 

This is my fridge:

It's pretty, isn't it?  I don't think I've ever mentioned my refrigerator because, well, it's pretty boring.  It holds our food and keeps it cold.  That is, until Saturday, October 27th.  That was the day I woke up to find this:

The interior of my fridge was 71 degrees.  My house was 69 degrees.  I had a freezer packed with frozen appetizers because we were having a party the next day.  A party for 35 people.  And my mother in law was staying with us.  As was my brother in law and his wife.

In other words, I NEEDED MY STUPID REFRIGERATOR TO WORK.

But it was a Saturday, and the fridge is under warranty, and GE would not come out until Monday.

So me, being resourceful and cool-headed (for once) called good friends of ours and asked (begged!) them for freezer space, as I did not want to serve our friends salmonella-infested quiche.  They understood, of course, and kindly made room for our food. The party was saved!  Hot drinks are on me!

Monday came.  The GE repairman came.  He looked at our refrigerator for a total of 5 minutes and announced that he needed parts, and that they would not arrive until Friday.

We were leaving town on Wednesday and would not be back until Sunday.  No worries!  I made an appointment for Monday (yesterday) and cleaned out the fridge.  We left it looking like this:

That night the cleaners feasted on Trader Joe's pizza and cheese, and our wallet cried real tears.  All that food!  Gone!  Poof!

Yesterday, I waited all day for the GE guy to come.  He fixed our fridge and left.

Joy!  Living without refrigeration when you have small children is damn near impossible.  I made plans to go grocery shopping for those things you never think to buy - things like mayonnaise and mustard. 

Last night I took a peek at the fridge before leaving for the store.  The temperature?  74 degrees!  AAUURGH!

I've been stuck at home all day waiting for the GE man.  He just left, and informed me that he needs ANOTHER part and we will not have a fridge until Friday, maybe Monday. We have guests arriving Friday.  I don't need to tell you why this sucks.

Sebastian is very upset that we have no food in the fridge.  He keeps saying "We no food!  We need to go growcery!  I drive red cart!  I fix frid-gerator!"  He makes me read him books about grocery shopping.  I think he thinks we're going to starve. 

Morocco: So Far From Suburbia II

(Part 1 is here)

We ate a light Tandoori lunch and drank Pepsi.  We were starting to get nervous about having traveled to this country alone.  The women hissed at us from underneath their chadors and the men simply ignored us. We stood out, a group of young female foreigners, despite wearing the most modest clothing we owned--long-sleeved shirts, baggy pants or long skirts, socks. We tried to be respectful despite the sickening heat, but the fact that we were traveling alone was seen as a threat by some of the locals.

Still, we explored the Bazaar at Djemaa el Fna and were underwhelmed by the snake charmers.  The famed dentists were nowhere to be found.  Apparently the Square only came alive at night, but we were feeling vulnerable and there was no way we were going there after dark, fire eaters be dammed.  Instead, we went into the souk and did some shopping. 

It was much friendlier at the marketplace, where every shopkeeper was eager to invite us in for mint tea – and to by the way take a look at his beautiful handmade shawls/pewter jewelry/rugs.  My friend listened to a rug salesman tell her the story of how this rug was made by his mother and that one by his wife. I wandered off while sipping my mint tea and peeked underneath a couple of rugs: 

‘MADE IN INDIA’

‘FABRIQUE EN CHINE’

Bored and not wanting to spoil her fun, I went to the spice stand and watched the shopkeeper pop in and out of a patchwork of colors like a mole, rushing to mix flavors as the shoppers barked their orders.

   

I didn’t buy anything.  But still, the Moroccans kept offering tea.  Maybe it was all the sugar, but Amy and I decided to get some henna tattoos instead of buying worthless knicknacks.  We found a woman in a black chador working on another tourist.  She had a little girl with her.  In broken French we asked the girl if her mother could work on us and the woman in the chador nodded -- maybe smiling, maybe not.  When it was my turn she quickly mixed the henna paste and set to work on my upper arm, drawing with a plastic syringe.  I didn’t know what I wanted or how to ask for it, but she got to work anyways and I was soon decorated with an intricate lotus flower.

I smiled and thanked her.  It was beautiful, even if it was not authentic.

She worked on my friend Amy in silence, and didn't speak until she was done.  We waved goodbye after we paid the girl, but the woman kept going on and on in French.  I couldn’t understand what she wanted, so I figured she wanted more money.  I pulled out a few dollars.

She refused and grew more agitated, black fabric flapping everywhere.

We gestured for her to follow us as we looked for our Belgian friend Sylvie.  We finally found her looking at some rings.  The woman in the chador spoke to her, and seemed to calm down when she realized Sylvie spoke French.

“She wants to invite us to meet her family.”

Silence.  Somebody finally said OK.

“We’re to meet her here at 7:00 am tomorrow.”

Morocco: So Far From Suburbia

My first job out of college was as a marketing assistant in the beauty industry.  Manual labor is part of the job when you're that low in the totem pole.  For me, that meant unpacking endless boxes of product samples and marketing materials--which isn’t too bad when you’re a young beauty junkie because knowing that I got to see all this stuff before everybody else was still exciting then.  A few months into the job, by the time my life of freedom was a distant memory, I was unpacking one such box.  It was full of cosmetics that weren’t available in the US and had been sent to us for possible inclusion in the duty-free assortment. 

Among the perfume bottles and pre-wrapped boxes of miniature lotions – meant for clueless businessmen looking for a last-minute gift for ‘the wife’ -- I found a long thin metal tube.  It was just a lipstick (I remembered buying one at El Corte Ingles when I was studying abroad in Granada, Spain), but it brought back memories of dusty alleys and of the sweet taste of mint tea.

I was in Morocco in April of 1997 because it’s what you did when you were an exchange student in Granada.  We first made plans for a large group, but when the guys heard that the girls in Ibiza were easy they changed their minds at the last minute.  So instead of nine, we were a group of five - all girls.

(Jorge, our student advisor, had begged us not to go.  “Five females?  In Morocco?  Alone?  Are you mad?”  He was a law student and worried too much.)

We left Algeciras on an rusty ferry boat and crossed the Strait of Gibraltar, the famous rock getting smaller and smaller behind us as we got closer to the African shore.  As soon as we docked in Tangiers everything was different --the light red and hazy, everything soaked with the smells of cooking food.  It was crowded and people came at us from everywhere.  We ignored the many offers for private taxicabs and ducked into the relative calm of the train station, rushing to catch the last train to Marrakech. 

I was relieved when the train pulled out of Tangiers.  It was dangerous and I was glad to leave.  The train was dark and I tried not to think about the condition of our cabin as I forced myself to go to sleep.

It was morning when the train reached the end of the line.  My friend Amy and I quickly gathered our things and looked for the rest of the group.  It was a madhouse and I wasn't sure how we would find them but we soon heard them.

They didn’t look good.

“What’s the deal with all the sheep?  It was like a fucking zoo in there.”

Amy and I were in much better spirits because we had snatched the last two first-class cots on the train.  For $12 we got hard benches to sleep on and shared quarters with strangers.  At least we had some semblance of privacy.  Our cabin mates were already asleep in their bunks when we entered and had left by the time we had woken up the next morning.

The rest of them were stuck in the regular cars and had to do their best to sleep while sitting up.  To make things worse, it seemed that every other person on the train was carrying either live sheep or chickens—and they did it like it was the most normal thing in the world. We didn't know it, but everyone was going home for Eid al-Adha and the whole scene was not unlike that at American airports the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, except that here people carried livestock instead of wheeled luggage.

It was still early in Marrakech and after dizzying rides in little private taxicabs we finally got to our hotel, a little hole in the wall called Hotel Ali.  It was perfect for us, cheap, clean, and most importantly, it overlooked the Djemaa el Fna square.

We were ready to explore.  One of the girls wanted to find a carpet.  I was determined to photograph a snake charmer and a Moroccan dentist.  I never got my pictures.

More here.

What's that saying about the road to hell?

I spent a good part of yesterday evening getting organized so that I can finally stop wasting so much time.

I woke up at 6:30, showered and was ready to go before the kids were awake.  This has never happened before, but I was a woman on a mission.  Today, I was going to Get Things Done.

And!  Today is babysitter day, so I was going to have a fabulous morning of productivity.

I scheduled my first exercise class in a long, long time so I arranged my morning around it (because health comes first!)  My plan was this:

9:00 AM - 10:00 Breakfast and reading at the coffee shop. 
10:15 - 11:15 Pilates. 
11:30-12:00 Shopping for a baby shower my playgroup is throwing this weekend. 
12:00 - 12:30 Quick grocery run.

Instead, this is what happened:

8:45 AM Grab keys to head out the door.
8:46 AM Where are my keys?
9:00 AM  Seriously, where are my keys?
9:15 AM (email husband who is all the way in San Francisco) "Check your pockets - do you have my keys?"
9:30 AM  Think to check safe for a spare set of keys.  Forget combination.  Get self locked out of safe for two hours.
9:45 AM (email husband) "OMG WE'RE STRANDED!  SEND HELP!"
9:46 - 10:30 Turn entire house upside down while sitter, toddler and self look for keys.
10:31 AM Find keys in pocket of jacket left in the dirty clothes pile (also known as Mt. Rush-no-more)

I have two hours of sitting left and I'm about to run out the door like a madwoman, trying to get everything done at the last minute.  In other words, it's business as usual around here.  Maybe I should stop trying to fight the damn universe.

Mostly, I'm pissed that was up at 6:30 AM for nothing. 

Inertia

I waste time every day and I don’t know why.

What am I so afraid of?  What do I keep putting off?  What am I afraid of accomplishing? 

It’s not like I set out to waste time; it simply slips away.  I have no respect for it.  I always thought that given free time I would fill it well.  When my days were busy working for others I had so many ideas and plans for how I would fill MY time when it finally became mine.  Now that my time is mostly my own, I have found that what I’m best at is wasting time.  I don’t know what to do with it.  Time scares me.  I tell myself I’m a perfectionist, but the more I try to spend my time perfectly, the quicker the minutes tick away into nothing.

My master procrastination skills are a big part of the problem.  I’ve read that the reason so many of us procrastinate is that we’re adrenaline junkies--that we’re addicted to the rush of accomplishing things at the last minute.  Because deadlines drive us only when they loom large.  So instead of doing things we procrastinate.  And if you think about it, procrastination is nothing more than waiting. 

I hate waiting. 

I hate waiting in lines, I have waiting on the phone, I hate waiting for food to heat up in the microwave.  Yet I procrastinate like a champ.  It makes no sense. 

To think of all the amazing things that can be accomplished in a day, an hour, a minute.  Instead I put it off.  And what do I have to show for it?  Nothing.

You know that dreadful feeling on Sunday afternoons when you realize that you don’t know where the weekend went?  Those precious two days you spent all week waiting for?  Gone.

I’m starting to feel that way all week.  That is scary.

I’ve got to stop waiting.  I’ve got to start right now.  Be in this moment.  Savor it.  Touch it.  Feel it.  Live it.

Because the days, they go by so fast. 

Today is the first day of the rest of my thirties

Today I turn 31--which means that I'm officially in my thirties.

Do you remember the debate about the turn of the Millennium?  Back then, there were two types of people in the world - those who felt that the year 2000 was not the beginning of the second Millennium, that in fact, it was the last year of the first Millennium.  And then there were the rest of us, who thought that those people were a bunch of spoilsports and we knew that the year 2000 was indeed the new millennium and we were going to party like it was 1999, all logical explanations to the contrary be damned!

I still think I was right.  Even though when I turned 30, I shrugged it off because 30 is just the last year of your 20s.  (Hypocrite!)

But now, now I can't put it off any longer.  Thirty-one is officially, unequivocally your 30s.  Even if I feel pretty much the same as I did when I was 14 - except for the mortgage, two kids and a husband part.  Oh, and the fact that I never, ever worry about Geometry these days.

If anyone has any advice on how to make the 30s the Best Decade EVER, I'd love to hear it!

Proof that the housing slump is about to get worse

I just got off the phone with our real estate agent. 

No, we're not selling the house we just bought - I'm done with real estate posts for now.  Then again, maybe not.  You see, she called because she's been trying to get me to become a real estate agent.  She was impressed with my obsessive research (a lot of the times I knew more about the houses we looked at than she did.  I am a world-class Googler!) and my compulsion to improve listing descriptions.  I can't help it - it's the marketer in me. 

Once, I told a seller's agent that while the house she was showing us was not for me, she should mention the attached two-car garage "which is a rarity in a 1930's colonial in this price range.  And I would advise your clients to remove the brown drapes in the living room.  We want light.  Light is good!"

She looked at me like I was crazy.  My agent, on the other hand, started her campaign to get me to work with her. 

"Nah,"  I said.  "I don't need the pressure."

"You can work as much or as little as you like.  The money is good.  Think about it."

I told my husband about it that night and we had a good laugh.  I mean, I'm a suburban stay-at-home mom who is thisclose to buying a minivan because I think I want one.  If I became a part-time real estate agent the logical next step in my Donna Reed transformation would be my purchase of a vacuum cleaner so that I can finally wear my pearls.  You know, while I vacuum.

(The scary part?  I've been eyeing the Dyson website.  Send help.)

Anyways, where was I?  Oh yes, the part where my husband and I laughed about me becoming a realtor, which we did until we saw what she earned for a few hours a week looking at houses with me.  Then it wasn't funny - I could buy 50 Dysons with that kind of money.

When I told her that I wasn't ready to commit any time to this she told me that if I took a real estate class and helped her market some homes she would give me 25% of her commission on any homes we sold together.  That's 12 Dysons right there.  And I wouldn't even have to change out of my pyjamas because she's convinced I can do this from home.

People.  It's starting to sound REALLY good.

Somebody alert the Fed, because this is not a good sign for the housing market.

My timing is awful when it comes to career-related things.  When everybody was making buckets of money for playing foosball (ah, the sweet dot com days!) I decided that THAT was the perfect time to go back to school.  The genius of my strategy became evident when I graduated in 2002, right smack in the middle of the Enron/Tyco/WorldCom/Adelphia business scandals that made putting an MBA on your resume almost as attractive as saying that you have head lice.

So if I enter the real estate field, even half-assedly, I'm afraid I may just throw the country into recession.

I promise to warn you if I ever decide to take one of those weekend real estate courses.

29 is the New Old (except that now I'm 30)

We're huge (HUGE) Trapped in the Closet fans round these parts.  I wrote this after we went to last year's R. Kelly sing-a-long, and I'm sharing it here in honor of today's release of chapters 12-22.  It's a big cultural event - the NY Times says so and so do I.

I see an R. Kelly party at our home in the very near future...

I almost forgot to tell you about the Trapped in the Closet Sing-a-Long!  I went!  And it was fun!  It also made me feel old!  But in a good way! 

We were so glad we're "responsible adults" because when we got there, a full half-hour early, there were people standing in line - in the cold - waiting for a chance to be let in to the SOLD OUT show.  I was surprised that a theater would sell out for a midnight-2:00 am show even if was to make fun of R. Kelly.  (See?  I told you I was old.)

Anyways, we were not about to stand in the cold so we went to a bar.  The only bar in Coolidge Corner is a college bar, which was cool - like being 19 all over again - except that I made a tactical mistake.  If you're over the age of 25 and find yourself in a "college bar" and you see that they have a "martini menu," ORDER THE BEER!  Unless you like your martinis to taste like cough syrup.  If that's the case, by all means be my guest and order away.  Also, I have found that the size of the martini is inversely correlated to the amount of alcohol in the drink.  My glass was, I kid you not, the size of my head. 

So, we head back to the theater and I'm disappointingly sober.  Then we saw the people in line, and I had to laugh.  It was full of Emo kids, all ironic and intellectual looking, except that I called them "slackers" because that's what they were called when I was in college back in 1994 (You guys remember Reality Bites, right?). 

But I knew that this night was going to be SO worth the $60 we spent on babysitting when we finally made it inside the theater and the South Park episode on Scientology (watch it here if you've missed it) was playing as the prelude - there's nothing like a quick refresher on Xenu to prepare you for deconstructing an urban opera, I always say.

They started the evening with a "R&B Battle in the style of R. Kelly" between a guy who looked exactly like the kid in Rushmore and a plain vanilla jock.  The Rushmore kid won by a landslide.  In fact, if you closed your eyes he sounded just like R. Kelly (granted, not that it takes that much talent to do it).  The jock was literally booed off the stage - and I was happy.  I'm always glad when the dopey kid wins. 

After some pseudo-intellectual intro that was really funny but I forgot, our emcee explains that they will only show 4 episodes at a time (there are 12 in total) because "the intensity might kill us if we don't take a break."  He was not exaggerating - the level of noise and off-key singing that erupted the second the show started was deafening - it was impossible not to get into it.

Seven o'clock in the morning
And the rays from the sun wakes me
I'm stretchin' and yawnin'
In a bed that don't belong to me-e ...

As you all know the song quickly builds into a crescendo - it was impossible not to scream out the lyrics. 

He looks at the closet!!!
I pull out my Beretta!!

The Husband (along with about 300 people) was really getting into it and we we got to the first cliffhanger we were shouting at the top of our lungs:

He walks up to the closet !!!!
He comes up to the closet!!!!!!!!!!
Now he's at the closet !!!!
Now he's opening the closet...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The kid that was sitting next to The Husband yells in his ear "this is going to be the BEST night of my life!"

OooooKaaay.

He must have been really impressed that my Husband, a man who is probably twice his age, knew all the lyrics as well as he did because he took out his backpack and handed us beer.  He had contraband!  And he gave us two! 

Budweisers.  In the white cans. 

I haven't had one since college (because I'm a snob. I admit it!) but I have to tell you - that Bud was like the Ambrosia of the Greek gods - delicious!  We were young!  Carefree!  And Naughty!  We were drinking with our new best friends! 

My husband, who is impeccably polite, had to reciprocate.  But our group had only one thing to offer.  So my husband takes it and taps the shoulder of our beer benefactor to offer some of our precious contraband.

"Want some?"

The kid's face breaks out into a grin until he looks down; he then looks up at my husband, puzzled.

"It's a Toblerone.  Take all you want."

"Um.  I'm cool."  (Awkward pause.)  "Thanks?"

Yeah, we felt stupid.  But we were soon back in good graces with our buddy.  By the next chapter, he had given us more beer and we were all happily singing along with R. Kelly as one big, happy, inter-generational family:

She says you're the perfect lover!
I said I cant go no futher!
Then I flip back the cover!
Oh my God, a rubber...rubber...

Kids today.  They're awesome. 

Oh No! Here comes another ethnicity post!

There's been lots of talk around the blogosphere regarding race and ethnicity and whether it matters.  I've been meaning to write about a million other things, but my thoughts keep coming back to this topic. 

First, a confession.  I have an MBA and I had a great career and now I get to stay home with my kids and try my hand at writing.  I'm privileged - I know that - so this isn't a post about how life is so hard because I'm Hispanic.

I like being Hispanic.  I like it a lot.

Unfortunately, that doesn't mean that I don't meet my share of idiots.

So, back to the MBA.  When you're in business school there's an embarrassment of riches when it comes to career coaching and jobs and just plain old opportunity.  Companies basically wine and dine you for two years and sometimes they hire consultants to pick the "cream of the crop" for them and then they fly them out to a central location where they meet you and offer you jobs, jobs that sometimes come with salaries in the six digits.

It's not a bad deal.  Especially if you're not switching careers, which I wasn't.  I had left a brand management job in a glamorous though not well-paying field with the goal to do the same job in a less-glamorous but better paying company.

Since I already had brand-name experience on my resume and the school had awarded me a full-tuition fellowship my name was always on the invitation lists for marketing jobs.  (I think some of my classmates hated me.  I would have.)

One time, one of these hiring consultants invited 15 of us to come in for practice interviews and resume reviews.  He would pick up to five of us and fly us to Chicago to meet with his clients (Big Brand-Name Consumer Goods Companies). 

I was on the list.

The day of my interview, if you'd just let me brag a little here, I nailed it. 

"I'd like to offer you a spot on the Chicago trip.  You're smart, you know marketing and you present yourself very well.   My clients would love to meet you."

"Thanks!"  I said.  I gave myself a mental high-five.

"There's just one thing that needs to be fixed on your resume."

"OK."  I took out a pen so I could write on the copy of my resume I had put on the table between us.

"I think you should take out the last sentence in the 'Skills' section"

I reread the "Skills" section.

SKILLS

Experience analyzing AC Nielsen data.  Working knowledge of French.  Fluent in Spanish (native speaker).

"I know that 'working knowledge of French' is a bit awkward, but I don't want to misrepresent my skill level..."

"No," he interrupted, "you shouldn't say you're fluent in Spanish."

Now I was confused.  I'd never heard of such a thing - paring down my resume?  If anything, in business school we were taught to brag as loudly and as often as possible. 

"Why?"

"Because you're an excellent candidate and we don't want people to get the wrong impression."  The bastard said this while looking right at me.

What impression would that be?  That I'm Hispanic and therefore couldn't possibly be "smart" or "an excellent candidate"?

I stood up and gathered my things.  "My background is an asset.  I'm Hispanic.  If you or your clients have a problem with that..."  I was so angry I was about to explode.  "This interview is over."

I left the room and marched over to the Career Services Office, where I instantly filed a complaint.  Now that I'm older and wiser I only wish that I had sent an email to the heads of human resources at his client companies so that they could learn what a tremendo comemierda was representing them.

So yes, ethnicity matters.  As long as people ask you to deny the essence of who you are in order to be accepted, it matters.  As long as "Hispanic" is shorthand for "poor" (i.e. Hispanic neighborhood, Hispanic worker, Hispanic mother), it matters.  As long as Lou Dobbs and his friends look like they're going to throw up every time they say "Hispanic" it will continue to matter.