A Yank abroad during the "War on Terror"

Lately I've thought quite frequently about the time I spent living outside the US. Partly this is a function of using myself as a case study in the introductory anthropology courses I've been teaching, demonstrating for my students how at least one anthropologist dealt with culture shock, intercultural communication, and other fun things. But this reconsideration has also been forced on me by recent events that illustrate my country's rocky interaction with the rest of the world.

All cultural anthropologists put in their time living with and studying some social group--the more different the better--meaning we experience the often considerable tension of dependence on a host group whom we nevertheless outrank in influence and even wealth. It was just my luck to undergo this difficult experience in one of the US's most conflicted partners (Mexico) starting immediately after 9/11/01.

Immediately. As in seeing machine-gun-wielding National Guards tromping around O'Hare (though I have to say I was inspected more thoroughly at Juarez Intl as I was returning). As in watching the first bombs fall on Afghanistan as I was lining up contacts.

I returned to Mexico the following summer during the buildup to the attack on Iraq. When I reached the highest-stress period of my research, I passed multiple insomniac nights watching herky-jerky video from "embedded" reporters in Army Humvees blasting across the desert toward Baghdad.

Through that whole year I experienced occasional anti-US flashes--some protests against hemispheric trade, pro-Osama grafitti on the UNAM campus, attacks on KFC and McDonalds--and frequent joking demands from acquaintances to explain my country's actions. (My standard response to anything political was a bashful admission that "When the president speaks, I get a headache."

Only twice was I called out as a gringo, both times by kids in small towns. Rather than cause me any consternation, those reminders of my pasty whiteness only heightened the intriguing surreality of my situation. That surreality is what bubbles to the surface most readily whenever I think about my year in Mexico, though it is the hardest to convey.