A loss for words

A Loss for Words

I wouldn't have thought a Dodge Neon could be considered an all-terrain-vehicle, but apparently I was wrong. There it was with five passengers struggling up the mountain side, kicking up clouds of parched red dust, the poor little engine whining and whimpering constantly, taking on much more than its fair share. It stopped every so often, occasionally for a flock of mottled-looking sheep or a herd of cows, other times for the topes- large speed bumps that seemed to be constructed of whatever was available at the time. Often, the car was too weighted down with passengers to navigate the hillside, so we got out and pushed or walked alongside. I began to appreciate pavement more than I had ever expected to. Multiple emergency lights were lit, but it never stopped going. That brave, willing little car could have climbed Mount Everest. But that would have been quite the commute.
We were in Mexico, on a nameless dirt road somewhere outside of Mexico City, on our way to visit a community of Nahua- an indigenous Mexican people. I was traveling with my dad and his three friends Mario, Laura, and Nydia. Their mission was to spread some awareness to these communities about the non-profit organization NewEarth (The New Earth Fund is a global source of funding for local initiatives that improve the lives of people and the planet), and bring some computers to the village as well. Mine was just to observe, soak up as much as I could, and maybe learn something along the way.

We pulled to the top of the mountain, parked the Dodge and climbed out, stiff and sore from the bumpy ride. The view alone managed to knock the soreness and exhaustion to the back of my mind. The lone road wove snakelike down the mountainside, its brown coils eventually falling out of sight as it neared Mexico City. In the distance, I could see a volcano topped with snow. Still glancing back to stare at the view, I was led to a typical Nahua midday meal, courtesy of an old, wrinkled but still agile grandmother. I stepped into the small wood hut that was their home and observed while I ate nervously, unsure about the unexpected hospitality. It was sparsely furnished, but obviously not by choice: a radio, clock, a few grainy photographs nailed to holes in the cement wall, some on an old counter. The village looked like a South American version of the Great Depression ghettos; the ramshackle houses the size of the living room in my house in Maine, but attempting to house a family twice the size of my own. I felt confused, disordered, and mildly embarrassed. Here I was, involuntarily taking advantage of these impoverished peoples' lunch, unable to voice my gratitude in a language that they understood, and they didn't seem to mind in the least. In fact, they stared at me, out of amazement or fear: I wasn't sure which. Laura, our resident translator, roused me from my contemplations, saying the Nahua wanted to know if dad and I were brothers. I decided to take that as a compliment.
Marilyn, a petite brown child about seven years old, clad in a dirty white shirt with a pink flower on the front, decided we were going to be best friends for the day. She led me by the only finger she could grasp - my pinky finger - to all the places she thought would be acceptable to show off to her guest: the church, her house, and most important, her garden. She rattled off a constant commentary in Spanish that I wished I understood. She rubbed the skin of my arm, obviously expecting it to flake off and reveal the light even brown underneath. When I kneeled to examine her budding chile plants, murmuring muy bien, muy bien in a terrible attempt to make sense in a Spanish accent, she grabbed me in a small but genuine bear hug.
Returning my amiga's curious embrace, I finally realized what the main cause of my confusion had been: I had not seen a single person in the village that wasn't smiling or laughing. In spite of the Nahua's situation, they were genuinely happy- a type of satisfaction in life I had never witnessed before. Close to tears, I realized the validity of the fortune cookie advice I had been receiving my whole life: ultimately, contentment cannot be dependent on what or even who you surround yourself with. I understood that I had grown up in a culture reliant on material remedies for dissatisfaction, be it expensive clothes or cars or cooking or even cocaine.
Out of respect for my new friend I kept myself from crying, but I almost wished I could. These people revered the United States, idolized it. I could tell from Laura's translations that it was like a kind of Promised Land in their eyes. But ironically, I envied them. They had learned to derive happiness from within themselves, and I knew that in their situation, I would not be smiling.

As we piled into the Dodge once again, the entire village came to send us off. We drove slowly out of necessity, but it served to provide me a long glimpse of Marilyn's garden. Navigating our way down the mountain, Laura apologizing sincerely to her willing little car, with Spanish farewells echoing in my ears and the sincere grins of the entire village only just beginning to fade in my mind, I made a promise to myself that I would learn. I hoped that if I worked on it honestly, I could teach myself to ignore my culture's definition of and recipes for happiness, and accept one based on intrinsic satisfaction.
But then I realized it wasn't happiness I was after. In fact, in the act of writing about these events it has become clear that there is no word that effectively describes what the Nahua really have. "Happiness carries with it some cultural baggage that detracts from the dictionary definition. The connotation is weak, saccharine and insipid. The colorful Disney characters have a way of perpetual smiling, laughing and utter optimism. There is absolutely nothing undesirable about this state of being, except the characters never stay optimistic when faced with difficult situations. In the face of real life, they break down and cry, and this is not the Nahua quality.
None of the synonyms for happiness in the English language can accurately describe my ideal state of being. "Cheer and "delight carry the same cliche fairy tale ending baggage that happiness does. "Satisfaction fits the description better, but not precisely. The Nahua do not seem satisfied with their situation, and are constantly working to improve it. "Satisfaction also sounds too much like "satisfactory, which is a giant step below a "distinguished work effort. When I look up "contentment the dictionary tells me it is a reward for being unselfish, and then to "see happiness. The connotation for me is a man with a full stomach, with a warm, sleepy grin on his face. I don't want to live happily ever after, and recognize that I can't. Reality is not equivalent to Disneyland. I want to live in reality, and appreciate it for what it is.
I wonder, then, if the reason for the absence of genuine happiness (for lack of a better word) in the United States - the fact that there is always someone ready to complain, to worry and obsess over how things could be - is exactly that: we have no word with which to picture the ideal. To remedy this, I propose an addition to the English language: Nahuaness.