Mexico (2.4)

When Americans pronounce the word Mexico, the x catches violently in their throat. They cut the word in half with a rock hard k and then extend the final o to its breaking point. Americans vacation in Mek-si-cooh. Mexicans live in México, where x sounds like a soft gust of wind and o is a short sigh. The throaty flow of the word is clipped gracefully by the final clean syllable. The Spanish word is a whisper, a shout, a prayer. The English word, hard and sharp, is an outburst that sounds more German than anything else.

México is a dream, beautiful and terrifying, that flits between scenes of magic realism and surreal nightmares. It is a country that breathes, that palpitates, that rages, a country that walks the rough edge between its past and future. It is a land that exists outside of time, outside of any concept of structure or order, suspended between legend and reality. The word itself is a hoarse scream and husky sigh, at once a declaration and a confession that hints at all the beautiful contradictions of the country itself.

Mek-si-cooh houses maquiladoras, drug cartels, and spring break vacation spots. Mek-si-cooh is what used to be stamped into the underside of the toys in McDonald’s Happy Meals before China. Mek-si-cooh produces nothing but cheap televisions and illegal immigrants. It is a country whose only significance is its proximity to the United States, a land without imagination or mystery or intrigue. The word is a broken jumble of hard syllables, mispronounced and misunderstood.  Mek-si-cooh is an afterthought.