Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Frogs in Puebla
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
In Puebla, Mexico, I’m the only white-faced diner at Las Ranas taquería. I like it that way. Slim chance of bumping into a MAGA cultist here. In Puebla, I’m taking a break from Trump’s America.
I order my second Taco Árabe. Marinated, spit-grilled pork tucked into a charred Middle Eastern–styled flatbread stuffed with greens, onions and a mystery sauce. Iced horchata, a sweetly flavored rice milk, is the perfect pairing. Dripping from every side of the sandwich, meaty juices soak my forearms.
‘Ranas’ means frogs in Spanish. The cartoonish logo, a happy green frog, looks as if it were copied from a child’s learn-the-alphabet book; “F” for frog. Oddly, not a single menu item is prepared with a scrap of froggy ingredients. Even the signature sandwich—Las Ranas—is frog-free. Pre-Trump, I’d smile at the light-hearted misbranding, but now my mind is pushed in the direction of his lies, half-truths, distortions.
The boiling frog parable is one I use in class. Democracy is boiling itself to death—bit-by-bit, day-by-day.
The smoky aroma of sizzling, searing pork hangs in the air. A large screen television blares out a soccer match, olé after olé. White-aproned cooks rotate their attention between carving the charred meat and watching the TV.
The first Taco Árabe feeds me. The second one is how I cope with stress.
A few weeks back, one of my high school civics students asked, “If democracy is so cool, how come President Trump is always making stuff up?” My students aren’t dumb. They know their government is lying to them. In Trump’s case, Orwellian lying.
At the start of the year, the class read George Orwell’s 1984. For understanding the book, Trump is the perfect teacher.
Democracy dying is a hard read. My classes, normally filled with the optimism of youth, are blackened with a funereal fear. The brown-skinned are especially somber, silent, withdrawn. The Jewish kids too.
In one class, María Álvarez gave her book report on The Diary of Anne Frank. She picked a single passage to read. “Terrible things are happening outside. At any time of night and day, poor helpless people are being dragged out of their homes.” More than a few heads nodded knowingly.
On school days, I have to drag myself out of bed. The picture of María standing at the front of my class, her voice barely audible, haunts me.
The class textbook clinically describes malevolent tyrants—a Hitler or a Stalin—but miss the human heartbreak of a government intent on crushing truth and honesty. She’s living it. So too are my Jewish students.
Walking off my Las Ranas meal, I crisscross my way through the zócalo. Puebla is putting on her make-up, seductive clothes, beguiling fragrances.
The flowering jacaranda trees cleanse the air, perfuming away the smells of sweaty, hardworking shoeshine men, overflowing garbage cans and tour bus fumes. The colorful balloon sellers put a smile on the city. A Trump-like cover-up.
Angered at Trump intruding on my holiday, my cheeks flush the crimson color of Las Ranas pork. After Trump croaks, when my students are safe again, I’ll come back to Las Ranas—and order a single, stress-free serving of Taco Árabe.
