Outwitting Manic Depression: A Thirty-Some Virgin
While I was a student at Dartmouth in the 70s, the male-female ratio was 3:1 (presently 1:1). In practical terms, this meant that I was one of the two guys left in the lurch (This was where I met one of my two best friends, Tim Flanigan. We were vying for two different roommates without success). When I went to live in Mexico in the early 90s, I came with the expectation that my American passport would instantly make me a hot social commodity. In addition, women would flock to me for my charm, good looks (!) and social conscience.
Like my hero John Wayne, I was determined to marry an outstanding Catholic trophy wife from Latin America, preferably from Mexico, although I did not want to marry five of them. As an avid fan of the “Golden Era” of Mexican cinema, I fancied that I was following in the footsteps of Mexican crooner and star of the silver screen Pedro Infante. One thing we had in common was the act of crashing down from the heights, him in his airplane and me in the follies of my imagination.
Throughout my youth, I was never much of a partygoer. During high school, I had no interest in getting drunk or stoned at the grand majority of parties on the weekends. As stated earlier, I did everything possible to avoid a record that might tarnish my political career. Meanwhile, at Dartmouth, all of the fraternities ignored me – because I made fun of them with my cartoon strip Dartmouth U. in the college daily - except the “druggie” one. I do not know what they saw in me.
Now in my mid-Thirties, I found my early social life in Mexico to be limited to the workplace and having coffee with celibate members of Opus Dei. Perhaps I was still too much of a numerary to play the social circuit. While there has always been a vibrant community of former members in Mexico and other countries, it never appealed to me since I was still very much in love with Opus Dei. As a consequence, my optimal field of prospects was reduced to beautiful and intelligent former members who still loved the Work and who would date a poor quixotic former member bound to psychiatric medication.
Fairly soon, I became aware that a stranger has difficulty knowing if Mexican women are engaged or married because many do not wear their rings for fear of losing them to a thief. Many women cannot afford them or have already been robbed of them. To avoid embarrassment, this conundrum requires a basic background check among friends. I myself have made the mistake of not undertaking one only to my peril. On one occasion, I kept asking a charming bank teller out to eat. She laughed at my jokes. When we finally met for lunch and as she finished her meal (that I was paying for, of course), she alluded to her husband who lived in a distant town. Fortunately, he had not come along. I ripped my garments and told her forthrightly that she had to love her husband until death did them part. Later that afternoon, I closed my account with the help of another teller.
When the mexicanas would promptly realize that I was not just a Catholic, but also a practicing, encyclical-quoting Papist, I would lose all of the aspiring professionals and socialites. I was pegged as a mocho (during the anti-Catholic Cristero war, government troops would identify religious rebels by cutting off a part of their ear lobe). Rather than being ashamed of my religious devotion, I would proudly emphasize that I was “bien mocho” (literally speaking, very mutilated… for the faith). On the other hand, I came to realize that few traditional Mexican women were interested in leaving their relatives to live in a country like the United States that had no valores (values). As for beautiful practicing Catholic women who had an intellect, most had gotten married in their twenties. Whenever I would approach a pious lady after daily Mass or at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, regrettably, I had no luck following the kiss of peace.
Once I began romancing my cute barber. She seemed genuinely interested in me and her boss appeared to be encouraging the relationship. Then one day as I was approaching the shop, I noticed her speaking with a fellow. He simply could have been anyone, but I lost heart. A lady friend of mine told me not to give up so easily.
As my romantic attempts and “dings” accumulated, it slowly dawned upon me that foreign males were a dime a dozen in the country (est. 500,000 gringos). Impoverished and over-educated ones like me carried little cachet. Even among indigent American visitors, I found that a fellow English teacher bearing the signs of herpes drew more attention from the girls than I did. My post-Watergate policy of providing full disclosure about my fascinating medical problems rarely won any woman’s interest. They normally would react as if I was Casper the Friendly Ghost. I just wanted a dream lover to dream with.
My self-confidence in my mission and my self-deprecating sense of humor proved most confusing in this environment. I never owned a car there and always preferred darting about the capital by means of collective minivans and the subway in my beige trench coat. Eligible women of means were not happy to leave a pretentious suitor (pretendiente) at a subway stop along with the maids. Nevertheless, two of my American friends were able to date society ladies even though they didn’t own cars. It didn’t hurt that they were in their twenties and both good-looking. Neither was an ex-numerary babbling intellectual theory. Thanks to the auspices of my spiritual director there, one of my former numerary friends got married to a much sought after lady and has raised a lovely family while leading a highly successful career in Mexico and Latin America. At the time, I was disappointed that he did not introduce me to her peers.
The culture still harbors macho tendencies that, on an individual basis, can be directly correlated to over-protective mothers and masculine insecurity. It seems that women mostly prefer macho, macho men to Alan Alda wannabees. They can relate to what is predictable and understandable. The “Post It” definition of a macho man includes anti-Americanism, anti-intellectualism, bad language, dirty jokes, habitual risk-taking, wild driving habits and ardent womanizing. Their most world-famous feat takes place in Acapulco at the high cliffs of La Quebrada. Amazingly, these death-defying fellows only earn a pittance from the crowds. When not in free fall, they can be found challenging enraged wounded bulls in arenas speckled about the countryside (plan to avoid sitting on the sunny side). Other daredevils love car racing and horse racing. Favorite foods range from beef tongue, chile, chile, chile, mole, hot sauce, pork to very spicey food, while drinks span from powerful Western concoctions to pre-colonial pulque to the tightly regulated tequila with an unregulated worm in the bottle.
Without a doubt, I was among the least macho men in the country. By nature and by prescription of a delicate stomach, I would rarely venture to explore the bright red range of regional Mexican gastronomy. Similarly, drinks were off the table. Smoking was verboten. In sum, my litany of illnesses made me almost an “untouchable”. On my barebones budget, I could not afford boots. I was simply too radioactive to show off to groupies. Nevertheless, throughout my years in Mexico I stubbornly could not believe that El Señor Ted was a Don Nadie (a big nobody) on the social scene. True to my Star Trek roots, this state of affairs struck me as highly illogical.
Some of my best friends are ladies in Mexico City, many of whom were already happily married when I arrived. I came across a number of women in my courting years that lived up to their reputation as preening peacocks, that being in correlation to their beauty and social prominence. I should have consulted with the U.S. Embassy whether I earned a record for number of times being stood up (dejado plantado). There must be a plaque somewhere in its chambers. In many of these cases, the fault lies entirely with me for throwing myself at women who were absolutely uninterested.
As I recall the many women who I wanted to date or dated during my Mexico years, I am impressed to find how few reached my idyllic standards. To put it bluntly, most did not come near being like my mother. As a function of my shortage of upper-class or upper-middle-class friends, unattractive interests and meager means, my pre-internet dating search and grievous loneliness all too often left me to approaching anything appealing that moved. In this way, I did identify as another Pedro Infante who was known to have broad tastes.
On top of everything, I wonder whether the señoritas were put off by my big head (Dartmouth’s Daniel Webster style). This is a hand-me-down from my mother’s side of the family. In addition, when talking on the phone, my voice invariably goes to a Teddy Roosevelt falsetto. Cold calls could be embarrassing because I am frequently mistaken for a female.
Few traditional women shared my fascination with their culture and its peoples in all social levels (I once read that there are sixteen levels). In fact, these people sensed something bizarre and suspicious about an American intent on appreciating what Mexicans were really like and how that related to the future of the United States... that field was appropriate for the Socialists. When I would start going off on the subject, my eyes would start flashing like a police siren. Yet why, would they ask themselves, would any gringo who was not a professor be interested in learning about them? Where was the future or promise in that line of work? As an aside, I found the same lack of interest about my discoveries or experiences in Mexico on my visits back home to the States. As a result, most of my ruminations on the subject have been bouncing around in my head like metallic balls in a pinball machine for years on end.
What then was to protect me from making a huge mistake and becoming trapped to a woman and children in Mexico with whom I had little in common, especially religious beliefs? The ensuing anecdotes detail how I frequently was skating on very thin ice. In hindsight, I can only attribute my safe passage through that Valley of Emotional Despair to the grace of God, Our Lady of Guadalupe and the prayers of so many families and friends in Mexico and the United States who knew of my plight. Just as importantly, I was seeing a spiritual director and a confessor of Opus Dei every two weeks. My remarkable escape had precious little to do with me but for the communion of the saints.