I know very little about Richard.
I know that he is from Rhode Island, Jewish, has lived in Puebla, Mexico for twenty years, lives and owns an antiques store with his partner Victor. They have two dogs and nineteen canaries.
When I return to the shop a second time to schedule the interview Richard warns me that New Englanders are “very direct.” “I’ll tell the truth,” he says. “Come back Friday.”
I say that telling the truth is a good thing but as I am leaving I wonder if the statement I just made is accurate. After all, as anyone who has seen Rashomon can attest, truth is relative.
Against a backdrop of decorative china and glass-beaded clutches from a bygone era, I decide to pursue the investigation of Richard’s subjective truth.
What is your full name, please?
Richard Brian Butterfield. And I had a nickname; people always used to ask “What does the ‘B’ stand for?” And I got a reputation… I don’t know if I can say the word “ballbuster”? Well that was my nickname, especially in high school: Richard “The Ballbuster” Butterfield.
Richard, you said last time that you were very direct, truthful. For you, what is the definition of truth? Does such a thing even exist?
For me truth does exist but when you say “Does it really exist?” I don’t think so because truth is only what that person feels or has experienced but we´ll never know whether it´s true or not- it’s their truth. It may not be true at all. If you are a friend and you have a problem and you want some help I’m going to tell you the truth, not what you want to hear. So for me it’s the truth. I don’t play games in personal relationships. I didn’t play games in my store with my clients, either. Naturally, there’s a lot of talk and a lot of joking around but when people were in my store and a woman would come to me and say “How does this look?” I’d say “It looks horrible, get the damn thing off!” I like telling the truth. I don’t believe in hiding things, especially in relationships. If I’ve made a mistake and somebody gives me proof that I’m wrong it’s very easy for me to say “I’m sorry, you’re right.” And move on. Because when you don’t do that, or when you lie, it’s like a cancer. It never leaves you.
Tell me about where you’re from. I’ve never been to New England.
Ahhh New England. New England is a marvelous part of the United States. It’s where roots are really roots if that makes any sense. People have a sense of history; a sense of their background that is so deep inside of them they don’t realize at times how stable they are because of their past. You feel good around people like that once you’ve developed a relationship. It is not easy to develop friendships in New England because they’re very conservative, very private, but when you do, you can almost say it’s for life. And that is what is beautiful about New England. Physically the antiquity is beautiful, the tradition is beautiful. I like that. I don’t think we should ever lose our traditions. In New England we are constantly reminded or our past- the bad, the good and the ugly. I like New Englanders because they’re direct. They don’t waste too much time, they don’t like being conned. I adore New York for that, as well. People say New York is cold, and the people are aloof. It’s not true at all, they’re just busy getting to work and getting things done. That’s why I’ve always loved that city. I don’t think there’s any city that compares to it, that I’ve been to, at least. But New England has its traditions, it’s where everything began in the United States, and it’s part of me, it’s in my blood.
Short of calling you an expat, let’s just say you’re an American on hiatus from his birthplace. Can you tell me about what it was like moving South in the 80s? What led you to take a vacation from the States?
The first trip that I made to Mexico was in 1967. I was invited here by a very dear friend in New York who was an antique jewelry dealer. She and I had developed a wonderful friendship; she was a very mature woman who grew up during the 20s and 30s and was a member of Clifford Odets’ group —he was a playwright. I think that she was accused during this epoch of being a Communist because she was Jewish and because she hung out with these people, and they were all called Communists. She was just a phenomenal woman who had such wonderful world experiences that she shared with me as a friend, and she said, “You have to go Mexico, you are going to fall in love with it.” So she invited me and I came and I did fall in love with it. I came back every year for about a month or two and I decided that I had to live in this country. I wanted to live in a culture that is not mine, I wanted to learn a new languages, new experiences, new thrills. Also I was influenced by the deaths of my parents. They worked so hard to give us a good education, what was at that time, a good home environment —we weren’t of the upper classes— but we had lots of love and we had a lovely home, and a car and a television, and in the 50s, who had a television in the 50s? We had one of those big monstrosities. But when they died, my father in 1962 at the age of 56, and six years later, my mother. They were young. And I said to myself, “I’m not going to do what they did.” They worked so hard and then they died. They couldn’t even enjoy what they had. So I decided to save up some money, not to live luxuriously because I didn’t in the States either, but I had what I needed. And I didn’t lack anything.
So at the age of 50 I decided I’d had enough of retail, I decided to go to Mexico to study, to read, to experience, to travel. And I did some of that. I never was able to go to school here except to learn the language. I got involved with just surviving. It was a lot different in the 80s. What changed, naturally, were the people. If you’re being beaten into the ground as these people have been; financially, morally, you see a difference. The feelings towards foreigners changed. Before there was an acceptance that doesn’t exist now. Now we are sort of a threat. I don’t feel any danger or anything like that but you can sense this feeling of uncomfortableness. Living here has been a marvelous experience. It has opened my eyes to things I never thought I’d see; architecture, art, just simple people from the pueblos is something that I enjoy more than people from the cities. I don’t have the patience for phoniness. I’m not impressed by cars, or money.
So do you feel Mexican now?
Sure I feel Mexican. I feel Mexican every day because I enjoy cooking, and every day I go out to the patio and snip my chiles. So what do you think I do when I go home to the United States? I put chiles in my pockets. So I am Mexican because I don’t want to be home without fresh chiles. Not one day do I want to be in the United States and not have chiles in my eggs in the morning. I’m Mexican!
The French philosopher Julia Kristeva observed that the way that foreigners cause such strong reactions in people is related to a tendency to recoil against anything that’s unfamiliar or strange within ourselves. She said that being a foreigner is akin to a train ride where everything is fleeting and impermanent. How would you describe your experience of being foreign?
She’s absolutely right. I have always felt that living here in Mexico I must never, ever forget that I am a visitor. As we’re all visiting this planet, one day we’re going to disappear. I am a visitor here. I have to be careful in the expression of my feelings because of the fact that I truly come from a democratic country. Or autocratic country, whatever you want to call it. It’s a mixture, but in essence it’s democratic. I have no right to impose my interpretations of how I feel about my country on another country and people in that country who do not know what it’s like to live in a democracy. Living here as a foreigner I feel that we’re not accepted. But they feel they’re not accepted also when they go to our country, just in a different way. Only because of cultural differences.
