Blessed are the meek

Back home, I was a bit of a pushover. My stepmother once told me that, upon realizing that she was going to end up in the role of parent and role model, she felt compelled to try to buck some of the passivity out of me. I’m not sure she managed, though she did give it the old college try.

Now, passivity is not a foreign concept to most Canadians. While my Northern European mother froths and fumes at the money-grubbing, power-hungry North American society, the fact remains that Canada is not exactly composed of the Take Chargers that make up our neighbours to the south. Which is not to say that we’re serene, not by any means; we are just a country of screamers unwilling to take that scream to the streets lest we wake someone up who’s had a long day at the office and might be trying to sleep.

Lump on top of that cultural identity my own little package of neuroses about stirring things up too much, and you don’t get much of a force to be reckoned with. Sure, I’ve been known to blow a gasket and rage at someone, but that rage is taken back within minutes of the initial explosion and turned into a rather pervasive sense of regret and groveling apology. I have trouble asking for money because I’m not entirely sure if I deserve it, and I have trouble asking for help because I’m not entirely sure it’s not too much to ask. My therapist once howled at me, “For goodness sakes, girl! Stick up for yourself sometimes!”, to which I probably quaked and mewled “But hoooow?”

So imagine my surprise when Pavel tells me I’m aggressive.

Jaw on floor. What? Me? What? How?

My boss and I are tense with each other, and have been since the day she handed me a cheque for $200 and called it my monthly salary. Raising my Canadian eyebrow and stamping my little First World foot, I successfully threatened to quit until she upped it to a borderline liveable wage. To this day I periodically march into her office and demand validation and motivation. Meanwhile, my lovely co-worker Poncho, 27 years old and university educated, sits meekly in his office, earning what she tried to pay me, being called the names she tries to call me, working 12+ hour days, all without a peep.

I’ve been chalking this difference up to labour culture: Poncho doesn’t want to quit or risk being fired by challenging his payrate and level of respect because this is a good job, by many standards, and there is a good chance there isn’t another one out there for him. Me, I can toss my hair back and tell her all manner of inventive places to stick her exploitative employment because I have the refuge of Canada to flee to if I get called on my bluff.

Okay, I’ve not actually told her to shove it. I’ve thought it, certainly, and I’ve been very creative with her options, but I’ve not yet said it out loud. Yet.

What I’m starting to realize now is that it’s a combination of the labour culture – where decent jobs are few and far between – and of general Mexican culture. Poncho wants very very badly to stand before G the Great and Terrible and demand a fair wage and fairer working hours, and in fact has gone so far as to commend me on my success in those areas, but he just doesn’t know how. No clue.

And when I combine this with the fact that most Mexicans will say yes even if they mean maybe or no, and will give you directions helpfully even if they don’t know where it is you’re going, and will (according to the stories of my friend, who spent several years building homes in communities in need) cook up their only chicken for a guest even if it means no more eggs for awhile, I can’t help but notice a pattern emerging: Mexicans are crap at not being the nicest people possible.

Some of this is due to the average Mexican actually, legitimately, wanting to make you happy. “Claro que si!” is not a manipulative lie to keep you guessing, it’s the Mexican wanting to assure you that things actually *can* work out the way you want them too. You are worth the honour of the chicken, in their eyes, and it will make them happy to share their very best with you.

But I have a theory that, wrapped up in all this effort at goodness, there is also a bit of power submission going on, regardless of who the other person is. A submission entrenched into Mexican society, perhaps, by the worship of a god figure being venerated precisely for the meek and submissive way he allowed himself to be quietly tortured to death.

I’ve written extensively already about Mexican Catholicism because of my own voyeuristic bewilderment at some of the images presented as inspiration. Yet, while I myself don’t understand my flayed to the bone Jesus figure in the main cathedral, the message is quite clear: look how this man suffered! Jesus is the lamb, the one who forgave all manner of abuses, who spilled a great deal of blood and tears in order to make the world a better place. The meek shall inherit the earth, and camels will get through eyes of needles before the rich will get their.

The whole Catholic religion, it could be argued, promotes submissive humility: penance, for example, can only come from admitting to another human being your most shameful thoughts and deeds. And, if 89% of Mexicans still define themselves as practicing Catholics (a number that, mark my words, will decline dramatically in the next two decades as my comparably heathen generation rears their own heathen children), this submissive humility is going to be deeply entrenched in the social identity.

Against this backdrop, yes, I suppose I am aggressive. Struggling against my own perceived apathy, the message I’ve heard all my life is how fortune favours the brave or, if you want to bring God into it, God helps those who help themselves. So, while I’m not exactly winning leadership awards up in Canada, down here where the scale is so so different, I’m almost off the charts.

It’s all really quite fascinating.