That Time I Bought a MAGA Sign

Oh the irony.

Picture me, a fifty-five year old Black woman, in the middle of a Mexican airport, holding a MAGA sign. I’m sure you’re wondering how I ended up in this situation. Well, here’s the story.

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{For context about why I was where I was when this happened, I’d just spent a week at the Modern Elder Academy (MEA) at the tip of the Baja California peninsula in Mexico. MEA offers those of us who are of a certain age the opportunity to dive very deeply into the essence of who we are, what we’re about, and what we want to do next. It was utterly life-changing, for reasons I can’t easily explain in writing. And that’s not what this newsletter is about, anyway. So for now, let me just say that I highly recommend MEA. And if a life-changing retreat is piquing your interest, you can learn more about it here. (If you’re wondering who qualifies as a modern elder, the average age of participants is 54.)}

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It’s last Saturday. Our MEA session has wrapped, but many of us don’t fly home until tomorrow, so we decide to take a taxi twenty-five minutes north to the small town of Todos Santos to seek out its great art galleries, its more quotidian but-no-less-enticing souvenir shops, and the inevitable beverages we’ll need in order to slake our thirst in the pressing heat. I stick my remaining pesos in my boxy brown leather over-the-shoulder bag but don’t intend to buy much. And that’s because I don’t like jewelry, I don’t like tchotchkes, and I sure as hell don’t need more stuff. At most I’ll get a sticker for my laptop to commemorate my time here, and I’ll just enjoy these next few hours mooching about, practicing my Español, and chatting with my fellow MEA participants, some of whom have become dear friends.

We arrive in Todos Santos just after 10 a.m., arrange to meet up with our driver at 12:45 p.m., and begin making our way through this quaint town. We venture into the interior courtyard of a small shopping center, and I notice signs sporting clever slogans propped against the walls. The slogans are made out of chopped-up Mexican license plates whose pieces are glued in vertical strips onto a long thin plank of wood. So for example, the sign ’SAVE WATER DRINK BEER,’ bears eighteen letters, each from a different license plate from any one of Mexico’s thirty-two states. The “S” might have been red with a cream background, the “A” might have been green on an orange background, and so on, for the remaining sixteen letters. (I’ve since come to realize that this style of sign is not unique, but rather is everywhere, including in the US, and even on Etsy. But it was my first time seeing such signs, and I found them intriguing.)

I’d been planning to buy a mere sticker, but now I’m imagining propping a commemorative sign against my outdoor Yard Pod, where I work, so that I can be constantly reminded of this transformative visit to Mexico. I search and search for the right sign. The slogans verge on the philosophical: ‘MAKE LOVE NOT WAR,’ and veer toward the tacky: ‘MUY BITCH.’ And none feel right to me.

And then all at once the simple slogan ‘BAJA CALIFORNIA’ beckons. It’s propped up against the darkened window of a tienda. Perfect, I think. I already have a California sign at the base of my Yard Pod, so this is the ideal complement given that California and Baja California are of course one piece of geography arbitrarily split in two by colonialism. I go in search of which shopkeeper this belongs to, but the first one I find shakes her head. “La tienda esta cerrada,” she says, nodding toward a darkened store. “Abre a las once.” But I can’t wait forty-five minutes. I sigh and my friends and I move on.

After stopping in jewelry stores, leather good stores, and galleries, we come to a souvenir shop that sells these same license plate signs. I’m delighted to have a second bite at the apple, and I meander in. This time, there are dozens of these signs to choose from, from terse to funny to poignant to campy. It seems that anything you might want said comes in this sign format, just like you can find almost anything on a t-shirt. Finally, I come across the biggest sign I’ve seen yet, clocking in at 21 letters and stretching over two feet long. It reads: “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.”

My head goes, Wait. Are you telling me that there’s a sign bearing the slogan of a man who hates Mexicans, comprised of Mexican license plates, assembled by Mexican hands? I picture the person who made the sign. Maybe they were feeling Yeah, how bout you TRY making America great again by getting RID of that man. Maybe they thought of making good money off of American tourists by selling this sign. Maybe they gave Trump the finger as they made it. Maybe they were even laughing.

I instantly fall in love with the irony, and decide that I have to buy this sign. Do I have enough pesos for it? Probably. Will it fit in my checked bag? I’m sure it will. I find the shopkeeper. She wants 1200 pesos ($60). I offer her 800 ($40). We settle on 900 ($45). I slot the lengthy sign into my boxy brown shoulder bag, but six inches of it sticks out at an angle, like a phallus. And I realize that whether I stuff the “MAKE AMERICA” end into my shoulder bag, or the “GREAT AGAIN” side, someone is bound to intuit the full horrible message from the half sticking out of the bag. So when the shopkeeper asks if I want a bag for it, I say, “Si, gracias,” with relief. And yet, the plastic bag she hands me covers only the part of the sign that sticks out of the bag and is thin and somewhat see-through. When I exit the store and the breeze flaps at the bag, I quickly tamp the plastic back down like taming a disobedient dog.

When I meet up with one of my MEA friends I can’t wait to show her my sign. But I can see that she’s perplexed by it. “It’s the irony!” I beam. She doesn’t quite get the irony though, so I explain the whole thing now, not just about the Mexican person who made this blatantly Xenophobic and Anti-Mexican sign, but that it’s made out of Mexican materials, not just any materials, but materials emanating from the laws and regulations of Mexico, for profit in Mexico.

“As long as everyone back home gets it,” my friend tells me.

“It’ll be in my backyard and anyone who is in my backyard will know it’s meant to be ironic.”

My friend looks at me.

I insist. “It’ll be FINE.”

When we climb back into the van to drive back to the MEA resort, and I lay my bag sideways to keep my sign from banging into anyone’s leg, I note what a pain it is to carry this sign, and I’m glad I chose to check a big bag for this trip so I can easily transport the sign home.

The next day, it’s time to pack up and leave the Modern Elder Academy. My very large blue checked bag is on the bed in my room, open and gaping like a maw to hold all the belongings from my week of travel. I stand before it holding my sign in two hands, as if presenting a royal scepter to a newly crowned king, only to discover that my sign is easily two inches too long for this enormous bag. I check the time. My taxi is leaving in under an hour. I’ve no time to figure out whether MEA will allow me to ship something home. I’ve no choice but to bring this thing home in my brown leather over-the-shoulder carry-on bag shrouded in only the thin somewhat see-through bag that the shopkeeper gave me.

I feel a bit of panic rise in me. It’s not just the cumbersome phallus-like nature of the sign sticking out of my bag, it’s that I’m going to have to carry this thing through an airport and onto a plane, then take it out of the bag and put it in the overhead bin, take it back out of the overhead and stuff it back into my bag and carry it through SFO. And what are the odds that this flimsy plastic bag the shopkeeper gave me will stay on the entire time, covering only half of the sign to boot?

I spot the sarong-like beach wrap that was in the room when I checked in, along with a robe. And I remember the small laminated sign from MEA that said guests could take the beach wraps and robes home with us (for a fee). So I cover the sign with the beach wrap. Then I take the very full garbage bag that holds a week’s worth of my dirty clothes, empty the dirty clothes out into my suitcase, secure the sweat and grime scented garbage bag around the cloth-wrapped sign, and pull the drawstrings of the garbage bag tight. No one will see, I tell myself. I’ll get it home safely. It’ll be fine.

Two hours later, I’m at Los Cabos airport and am soon just one in a throng of Americans all headed home from a week in Baja. Many wear t-shirts with various cheeky slogans about what they like to drink, or their mindset, or their personality, like ‘wake me at beer thirty’ and ‘these colors don’t run' and I’m glad my sign is wrapped up snug and tight. For all I know, some of my fellow Americans might be MAGA people, and I don’t want them to think for one second that I agree with them. And for the liberals, well I’ve already tried to explain the sign to one friend with not a lot of success, and I’m not super sure random strangers are going to be interested in my explanation of the irony.

I move through the throng of humans over to the United ticket counter where I check my big bag. Then I make my way up the escalator to the security check area, making sure to stand far enough back from the person ahead of me so that my wrapped phallic package doesn’t ram them in the behind. I get to the next floor. I show my ID. I’m now in a veritable mart of people with easily a dozen lines in which you can stand in order to get your body and carry-ons scanned. I choose what feels to be the shortest line. I pull out a plastic bin. I take off my metal bracelet and drop it into my shoulder bag next to the wrapped sign, where it nestles down against my books and laptop. I plop the bag onto the conveyor belt. I wait my turn to go through the metal detector. I walk through like a gymnast who wants to stick the landing. Nothing beeps. No random check or anything. I’m good.

I look over at the scanner. I see that my bag has come through. As I walk toward it, the security attendant pulls it off the conveyor belt. He’s going to inspect my bag. In front of all these people. My heart starts pounding.

I walk over to him and point, “Es mio.” He raises his eyebrows while keeping a very serious face. I join him over at a low table where he points to the wrapped sign and says in perfect English, “Please take this out.” Just to gauge how many people are going to see me and my sign, I look around casually. Maybe no one will focus on me. On the other hand, dozens of people could see me do this. Most of them Americans.

Then for the first time it really hits me: I’m a Black woman in Mexico with a MAGA sign. And I’m trusting that the irony that I see in this whole thing is going to be clear to absolutely everyone. A guy walks by in a “It’s not me it’s you” t-shirt, and my stomach lurches a little.

I instantly realize that I have to get my shit together and tamp down any feelings of worry bubbling within me, lest I raise any further concerns in the mind of the security attendant. I force a cheerful smile to my face and try to think ahead to how I’ll casually announce to those in my immediate vicinity about why I bought the sign, the irony of it being made in Mexico by Mexican people, from Mexican materials and hoping that I’ll be saying this to liberals not Trumpsters.

I slowly unwrap the musty garbage bag from the sign, and then unpeel the beach wrap. The metal letters of my MAGA sign glint off the overhead lights.

“It’s art,” I say.

“We worry it could be used to bash someone in the head,” the security attendant replies.

I stand there feeling that both me and my sign are naked, wishing I could cover us both up, wondering if the security attendant would be worried about me bashing someone in the head if I’d had the foresight to purchase the ‘MAKE LOVE NOT WAR’ sign instead.

“You have three choices. Check it, give it to a family member, or throw it away.”

“Check it?” I say meekly. I paid for this thing, after all.

“Ok, go back downstairs.”

Oh geez. It’s less than an hour until I board and this airport is only just starting to get going for the day, so the crowds will increase. The last thing I want is to miss my flight home because I’m clinging so hard to what just yesterday felt like the most perfect irony.

“Throw it away,” I declare.

“Throw it away?” he confirms.

“Yes, throw it away.”

Then, I get daring. I look at the security attendant with a knowing smile, in an attempt to pretend, perhaps, that he and I have an inside joke, as if maybe I’d bought the damn sign simply to throw it away all along, and that now that it has happened I am filled with absolute delight.

I walk away embarrassed, wishing I’d at least taken a picture of the sign so that if it wasn’t going to be propped up against my Yard Pod I could at least place a picture of it right here for you at the end of this story. Alas. You’ll just have to picture it yourself.

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As luck and life would have it, after publishing this piece, one of my new friends from the Modern Elder Academy sent me this picture. You see, she’d gone through the airport security line shortly after me, and well she wondered if somehow this might be sign…

🤗 In my book on adulting, Your Turn: How to Be an Adult, I say that “Life’s Beautiful F Words” are our greatest teachers. Those F words include: failing, flailing, floundering, fumbling, even getting tough feedback, and yes, outright fucking up. Here’s a hug for anyone who has had a joke fall flat lately, or an intention misunderstood, or who has just, in retrospect, outright fucked up.

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