Tonight, we're traveling to the far south of Mexico, to the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, the narrow waist of land where the Gulf and the Pacific come closest to touching, to a market that opens before the sun, to a wind that never fully stops, to marigolds in a plastic bucket, and gold earrings catching the light, and a brass band warming up somewhere out of sight, to a needle pulling red thread through white cotton one stitch at a time, the way it has been pulled for longer than anyone can count.
This is the story of a town that has always had three kinds of people and never once thought that was strange.
Imagine, if you will, Juchitán de Zaragoza in the state of Oaxaca on a morning in November.
It is not yet six.
The air is already warm.
The wind is coming in off the lagoons, the way it does here almost every day of the year, moving the palms and the laundry and the strings of paper flags left over from the last fiesta.
On a corner near the center of town, the market is opening.
It is the women who open it.
The women wear long skirts with a band of white lace at the hem, and over them, the huipil, a square blouse of dark velvet or bright cotton embroidered so densely with flowers that the cloth underneath almost disappears.
Among the women at the stalls, selling and joking and counting change, are the muxes.
That word is pronounced moosh-eh.
A muxe is a person who was called a boy at birth and who grew up instead into something the town already had a name for.
Some wear trousers and a man's embroidered shirt with a little makeup and a great deal of gold.
Some are somewhere in between and always have been.
Nobody at the market looks twice.
In Juchitán, this is simply Tuesday.
To understand how a town comes to be like this, we have to go back a long way.
Long before the Aztecs, they built a city on a leveled mountaintop called Monte Albán, with plazas and ball courts and a calendar of their own.
They had a written language when much of the world did not.
Tonight, we're traveling to the far south of Mexico, to the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, the narrow waist of land where the Gulf and the Pacific come closest to touching, to a market that opens before the sun, to a wind that never fully stops, to marigolds in a plastic bucket, and gold earrings catching the light, and a brass band warming up somewhere out of sight, to a needle pulling red thread through white cotton one stitch at a time, the way it has been pulled for longer than anyone can count.
This is the story of a town that has always had three kinds of people and never once thought that was strange.
Imagine, if you will, Juchitán de Zaragoza in the state of Oaxaca on a morning in November.
It is not yet six.
The air is already warm.
The wind is coming in off the lagoons, the way it does here almost every day of the year, moving the palms and the laundry and the strings of paper flags left over from the last fiesta.
On a corner near the center of town, the market is opening.
It is the women who open it.
The women wear long skirts with a band of white lace at the hem, and over them, the huipil, a square blouse of dark velvet or bright cotton embroidered so densely with flowers that the cloth underneath almost disappears.
Among the women at the stalls, selling and joking and counting change, are the muxes.
That word is pronounced moosh-eh.
A muxe is a person who was called a boy at birth and who grew up instead into something the town already had a name for.
Some wear trousers and a man's embroidered shirt with a little makeup and a great deal of gold.
Some are somewhere in between and always have been.
Nobody at the market looks twice.
In Juchitán, this is simply Tuesday.
To understand how a town comes to be like this, we have to go back a long way.
Long before the Aztecs, they built a city on a leveled mountaintop called Monte Albán, with plazas and ball courts and a calendar of their own.
They had a written language when much of the world did not.
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