Between the "piropos" (similar to catcalls), the stares and the overall feeling of being an "American" on foreign soil, I should feel like a stranger. And at first, I did.
However, recently, instead of feeling like a foreigner, I have begun to question just how foreign Mexico really is. After all, I didn't cross large bodies of water to get here or change time zones when I stepped off the plane.
Yes, it is true, I am eating food with indigenous roots every day - tortillas, chiles and frijoles (beans) - studying an entirely different language and interacting with a unique culture that thrives on its history and patriotism. But everywhere I turn, there are hints of "America" - clothes, cuisine, music and words in English.
For example, I find it humorous when my host sister waves to her mom, saying "Bye Mom!" in English with her Mexican accent or when my host mother screams "It's your boyfriend!" in English as she waves my roommate to the phone. And so, just as in the United States, where I see an increasing Mexican presence - specifically with the Spanish language - there seems to be a rising "American" presence in Mexico.
The fact of the matter is, to be politically correct, I am still in "America." When I walk the streets of Morelia, Mexico, I am, by record of customs, a United States citizen, but according to the people, I am a white girl - I am "American."
For all I know, those people seeing me on the street might be as ignorant as I was.
Here is something you might not know - the official name of Mexico is not Mexico. The official name is actually Los Estados Unidos Mexicanos de America, or in English, The United Mexican States of America. Therefore, I am still technically surrounded by "Americans."
Not only have we, citizens of The United States of America, taken the title of "American" as our own, so have the "Americans" in Mexico. They refer to us as Americans and themselves as Mexicans. As neighbors, we have brought so much influence to each other, but we are unable to see past our political, social and linguistic differences.
For instance, I was walking along the Plaza de los M+â-â-írtires in Morelia, Mexico, on a Saturday night with the study abroad group, watching the magnificent cathedral light up to beautiful music and fireworks, and I saw an older gentleman walking with a sign explaining that he had cancer.
Now, I see this frequently at home, too, but something about him touched my heart. I beckoned him over to hand him a peso. I have never met someone so thankful in my life. He stood there for a minute, and what he told me and my two friends should have made us upset.
"Thank you, thank you. All Americans are bad, all of them. And Bush is the devil. But you girls, you are angels," he told us.
His hatred for "Americans" was so strong, yet he handed each of us a rose and I a charm of one of their saints to thank us for our help.
I knew he had cancer because of the obvious signs of the disease in his face, his hair and his throat. As he turned to leave, he made sure to tell us all not to smoke - ever.
I suppose when it comes down to it, titles do not matter so much. So why is it that when someone crosses into another country, we as people cannot always appreciate a culture different from our own?
I consider myself to be very patriotic, and at the same time, I appreciate other cultures and naively wish more people could do the same.
A majority of Mexicans probably are not concerned about their right to the title "American," just as in the United States a majority are not concerned with the political correctness of the term.
But as I sit in my Mexican home, eating chiles rellenos one day and peanut butter and jelly the next, I leave you with this food for thought: What does it really mean to be "American"?
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