{"id":2521,"date":"2025-07-09T15:16:25","date_gmt":"2025-07-09T13:16:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.practicing.place\/?p=2521"},"modified":"2025-07-09T21:50:43","modified_gmt":"2025-07-09T19:50:43","slug":"unframed-my-survival-guide-to-stereotypes-by-feliciana-chiaradia","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.practicing.place\/de\/unframed-my-survival-guide-to-stereotypes-by-feliciana-chiaradia\/","title":{"rendered":"(Un)Framed: My Survival Guide to Stereotypes"},"content":{"rendered":"

Text by Feliciana Chiaradia<\/em><\/p>\n

As an expat from Calabria, Italy, I have experienced throughout my life abroad what it means to be away from the things I loved about the place I came from: my family, friends, the mountains rising above the sea\u2026 yet less people ever asked me about that. The most common question, besides from jokes about Berlusconi or Renzi, was: \u201cAs you’re from Calabria, do you personally know a mafia boss?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

That\u2019s why, when entering the academic world in Germany, I decided to write a dissertation about the representation of my region in relation to organized crime. I also chose to explore another region far away, Sinaloa, in Mexico, which I believe shares a similar perception in how its people are viewed, as a region really tied to narcotrafficking. Last March, I had the opportunity to travel to Mexico for the first time and conduct field research to see whether my assumptions, feelings, and experiences could be confirmed.<\/p>\n

Despite the stereotypes about Southern Italians suggesting otherwise, I like to be very organized, and my plan was to keep a daily journal to record my thoughts about Mexico on paper. But the jet lag, the surge of emotions, the city\u2019s relentless energy, my own curiosity, and the confronting images I encountered every day wore me down. But, let me begin from the real beginning of the trip, and perhaps something deeper.<\/p>\n

Madrid, 10.03.2025<\/strong><\/p>\n

My journey began at the Madrid airport. I had the comfort of spending the night before with my<\/p>\n

\"Figure
Exhibition \u201cMateria Interior\u201d Jaume Plensa. Madrid 2025. Author\u2019s own picture.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

brother in the vibrant capital of Spain. He helped ease my anxiety; some tapas here and there, a long walk through a city I briefly \u201cmet\u201d when I decided to leave my country. Spain: my first conscious step into the world, fuelled by a desire to \u201csee\u201d from afar and maybe change something, it made me upset about Calabria, the region where I was born.<\/p>\n

When I formulated my research question, something became incredibly clear to me: Mexico and parts of Italy face a similar tragedy, one of the \u201cdesaparecidos.\u201d I grew up watching people I loved \u201cdisappear,\u201d but, in this case, beneath the soil -poisoned by chemical waste hidden under Calabria\u2019s stunning landscapes. In Mexico, the violence is overt, brutal, unbearable. In Calabria, it is insidious, ignored, and almost unspeakable.<\/p>\n

Madrid became a threshold, a gateway between worlds. A familiar place that had previously answered my call for an \u201celsewhere,\u201d from where I could better understand my \u201chere.\u201d<\/p>\n

My brother and I rushed to see exhibitions. One led to another, time was short, and words weren\u2019t enough. But we made it. At Espacio Telef\u00f3nica, we visited an exhibition featuring sculptures by Jaume Plensa, a Catalan artist who explores identity through monumental heads. Materia Interior<\/em>, \u201cInterior Matter\u201d was the title the artist chose to summarize the pieces on this particular floor. A strange premonition: those silent faces seemed to foreshadow the decapitated heads I would later find in the film archive in Mexico City. The sky darkened in Madrid, as did my stomach – my first 13-hour flight loomed, taking me to a place I only knew through media and warnings. My brother suggested I share my live location with him during the journey. He promised to stay awake until I reached my apartment safely. That night, in his tiny shared flat, I barely slept. I even hit a wall in my sleep – leaving a bruise that stayed with me for the next two weeks, reminding me that this wasn\u2019t a dream.<\/p>\n

\"Figure
Skyline from Colonia Del Valle, CDMX 2025. Author\u2019s own picture.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

13 Hours Later: Mexico City<\/strong><\/p>\n

A colleague from Guatemala had advised me not to sleep upon arrival to fight jet lag. So, I took her advice. After a safe taxi ride to my rented apartment, I sat on the balcony, listening to the city\u2019s skyline – its symphony of noise, voices, and flickering lights.<\/p>\n

I had spent months trying to find the right place to stay in a city larger than Austria. My biggest fear was landing in a gentrified neighbourhood, where I\u2019d experience tourism, not life. So, I activated my international network. Through Natalia, a Colombian friend in Munich, I connected with Paolo, a Mexico City native now living in Saarbr\u00fccken. Paolo kindly helped narrow down safe and authentic areas to live in. Through Paolo, I met Jorge – my brilliant, unofficial local guide- and his Dutch visiting friend Jo\u0451l. I had already messaged Jorge waiting in the boarding queue, asking how to get to my apartment from the airport. Viral videos had warned me about the confusing chaos of CDMX\u2019s airport and the risks of unofficial taxis, particularly by night. That small conversation sparked a friendship. It reminded me: fieldwork isn\u2019t just research; it\u2019s also human bonding.<\/p>\n

Ciudad de M\u00e9xico (CDMX), Random Memories \u2013 March 2025<\/strong><\/p>\n

The jet lag tip didn\u2019t work for me. I woke up at 4 a.m. on my first morning. I watched the city wake up too. I love to explore a city without a map, though this time I had checked the streets beforehand. What I had read online had sparked a fear in me, but I was determined to walk.<\/p>\n

\"\"
Temple Reconstruction in the CDMX Anthropology Museum. March 2025. Author\u2019s own photo.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Jorge had advised me to take the subway: \u201ceasy and cheap,\u201d he said. He also said I could use my credit card to enter \u2013 but neither of my cards worked. I wanted to buy one of the colourful subway card. So, a long hunt for a decent currency exchange began. The card became my best companion for the rest of the trip.<\/p>\n

My destination was the Museo Nacional de Antropolog\u00eda. It was a place of wonder and questions. The exhibitions – spread across four huge rooms and two floors – offered an overwhelming, though fascinating, amount of information. The reconstructions of temples and tombs were detailed, but something about them felt… hollow, as though their energy had been left behind in their original locations.<\/p>\n

A few days later, I visited Teotihuac\u00e1n, home of the Pyramid of the Sun and Moon. The site – once considered a \u201cnon-place\u201d by colonizers – survived precisely because it was disregarded. It resisted erasure under layers of sand. I thought about how colonialism and capitalism continue to \u201cbury\u201d Indigenous languages and practices \u2013 now written on placards and recreated behind museum glass, while their people face subtle forms of segregation in urban life.<\/p>\n

\"\"
Impression of Sebastiao Salgado Exhibition \u201cAmaz\u00f4nia\u201d hosted in the CDMX Anthropology Museum. March 2025. Author\u00b4s own photo.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

A friend once told me, \u201cThey see the native in you, even if you appear \u2018white-.\u2019\u201d I carried that thought through the museum, especially on the second floor, where indigenous communities were \u201crepresented\u201d, flattened into folklore.<\/p>\n

Overstimulated, I wandered into a special exhibition of works by Sebasti\u00e3o Salgado, one of my favorited photographers. He transported me to the clouds over the Amazon and back to the warm heart of CDMX.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

UNAM and the Women of the Film Archive<\/strong><\/p>\n