Carnival of Future Teachers February 13, 2023
Although Carnival is not really a Mexican thing, tourist operators in Oaxaca are determined not to be left out of the celebration, launching the 9th Carnavales, replete with a small army of costumed revelers, almost all of whom resemble the Tiliche scarecrow rag-a-muffins that serve throughout the year. Anything to keep the visitors happy.
We have yet to see a drop of rain in 2023, and the surrounding hills show it, as green fades to brown. The Lluvia de Oro trees have lost their glorious flowers. Countless small garbage fires smolder across the valley, creating a haze that colors the days yellow. Someone needs to water the trees downtown. Someone needs to solve the landfill crisis. Some one needs to deliver the goods!
Oaxaqueños may not have the answers, but they do make their grievances unabashedly known. Next to our building, Calle Armenta y Lopez is closed to traffic indefinitely, as more than fifty tents line the street for two blocks. They are students of the teacher’s college, protesting with posters of Che and words of sharp criticism against the powers that be, whoever they are.
The tents have been here for weeks, and they may remain for months. Indeed, last year at this time, they came and settled on Armenta y Lopez, and they stayed until May. So this is something of a regular event. Perhaps it is an academic internship, a graduation requirement, or maybe a rite of passage.
According to local gossip, it may even be a mating ritual. They say the lovemaking on cobblestone really begins on Valentine’s Day. Curious tourists take pictures of the urban habitat on display and wonder what the protest is all about. “Derechos”, or “rights,” is the most common word on the handmade flags, so it is assumed that this must be a righteous call for reform. My more immediate concern is the sanitation.
For this, we have Pablo and Irma to thank. Their radical bookstore for educators, on the corner of Guerrero, is the hub of this union-sanctioned gathering. Inside, dozens of students wait for the chance to recharge their phones, escape the unrelenting sun, and hopefully wash up a bit. Outside, large tarps cover the sidewalk book displays, as well as some of the more fortunate tent-campers. When the wind picks up, the tarps inflate and begin flapping like schooner sails.
Of course, drivers have no idea of this obstruction and continue to turn onto Armenta y Lopez, heading south to the Periferico, only to enter a line of trapped cars. Some give up at this point, lock their vehicles and go to lunch, leaving drivers ahead of them stranded with no place to go. So they honk their horns, thus raising the volume of this protest so that even the Governor, one block away in his palace, might hear the commotion.
These young teachers-in-training speak of “Rights” and protecting the integrity of local communities, but there is something they are not saying. Indeed, this is a very select group with one common characteristic—they are all the children of public school teachers. According to union rules, the offspring of teachers get to become teachers themselves. This a traditional sort of inheritance. It is just as they all learned in their biology class at the Autonomous University; namely, all cells descend from preexisting cells. In Mexico, ergo, all teachers descend from preexisting teachers.
This status quo was upset in 2016 when President Enrique Peña-Nieto signed a law implementing a new competency exam for prospective teachers. Suddenly, nepotism was threatened. The students had lost their “Derecho” to become a teacher. In this way local communities became affected, particularly if no one in town could pass the competency exam. In this case new teachers would have to come from elsewhere. And existing teachers would realize that they could no longer provide jobs for their families like they did before. So they send their young ones here—to set up their downtown encampment and fight for their rights. And, if someone is not careful on Valentine’s Day, or Carnival Tuesday, they may even conceive the next generation of protesters.
As evening descends, we hurriedly make our way through the camp outside of Pablo y Irma’s, where small clusters of students share food and drinks and song. Across the closed Calle Guerrero, I cannot help but notice that some unusual puddles have formed against the shuttered Templo de San Agustin. Nevertheless, I will try to end this on a positive chord—E flat major:
“Él que canta ora dos veces.”
“He who sings prays twice.” San Agustin