Why, I have asked of you, did you leave me, as a frightened teenage mother would, naked and crying on my parents' doorstep to live my life knowing I had come from you without every knowing you?
Why, I have asked when bad things happened (and bad things have happened) why have you forsaken me?
What I failed to see is the way in which you are the water that fish swim in and the world through which I move
I do not have the faith of saints or profits or even that of mystics. But I have been given the gift of knowing you as I know the breath I have been given.
I thought I had fallen in love before when I felt the need to have you near me but I am always with myself so falling in love this time has been different.
I begin to dance with fragments of glass staring back and forth so I cannot count myself.
I try to catalogue all the little pieces of me that have fallen along the way. Fractions of a smaller self that I cannot reconcile with the women who surround me.
Like a word repeated over and over and over and over and over I become syllables without sentiment movement without context.
I attempt to gather my soul into these skins and remember the memories my freckles have but they have scattered to the four corners of a foreign moon.
And I find it easier to identify with the caterpillar in his chrysalis than the girl who wore my eyes yesterday.
But she nestles, that familiar stranger, making a womb of my left ventricle and whispers to me all the stories my mind cannot remember.
She sits there, my wild-haired fever- dream child and taps out the re percussions of a life she lived in my other skin.
(This work is still in progress.)
They call it Peace but there is rarely tranquility waiting for my home to shift and di vide beneath and from inside me.
I find no silence between my private spanglish dialogues on identity and the frenzied flapping banner sounds my resolve makes as
tied to the gently shifting pillar of my soul
it snaps in the roaring winds of political static and the sleet of loaded stares and empty promises as swells of swaggers and shrugs give way to tides of eyes that lap at my ankles and work their way up.
In this torrent, my stripes do waver. But just because I haven't killed some body doesn't mean I haven't served my country because my boarder doesn't stop at Texas and my passion doesn't know what a passport is..
Foreign winds may cause me to swell with pride and curious currents carry me higher. In persistent turbulence I loose my teather and frayed edges give way to feathers where uncoordinated flapping becomes driven flight.
The corn plant doesn't set down deep roots it sets down cultures and its small base and rasping voice take too much from the earth and leave too little nourishment to their posterity.
To love well is to teach well is to occupy a space that can never be emptied, even through absence.
Your artist's eye takes my picture and maps me in soft charcoal, but does not attempt to pin me to your self-portrait.
You do not blaze trails or demand passage into wild territories. You tread lightly, leaving only slippered footprints to chart what you can, and so find subdued places I did not know existed.
You visit the shadows and dance there. You burn incense, and sing in low voices, but light no candles to chase them away.
You know that the best way to share a flame is to stand by my side.
You teach me well because you teach me from a place inside myself and so occupy a space that can never be emptied, even through absence.
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Amar bien es enseñar bien es ocupar un espacio que nunca se puede vaciar, tampoco por ausencia. Tu ojo de artista toma mi retrato y me traza en carbonilla suave, pero no intenta a sujetarme a tu autorretrato.
No ardes senderos ni exiges pasaje a territorios agrestes. Te andas con pie de plomo y dejas solamente huellas. Trazas lo que puedes y así encuentras lugares que yo no sabía existían.
Visitas a las sombras y allá bailas. Quemas incienso y cantas en voces bajos, pero no enciendes velas para perseguirles.
Tú sabes qué la mejor manera para compartir una llama es ponerte a mi lado.
Me enseñas bien porque me enseñas desde un lugar adentro de mi propio y así ocupas un lugar que nunca se puede vaciar, tampoco por ausencia.
I recently heard someone say, “Culture is like the water fish swim in.You don’t realize how important it is until you’re out of it.” That has certainly held true for me in the short time that I have been living in Guatemala. The culture here is rich and many of the people are open and willing to share their homes and traditions with an interested visitor, so my experience has been enriching. However, there remain gaps in our understanding and communication because culture and cultural differences go far deeper than we are able to see. Therefore, they are often difficult to identify and even more difficult to understand let alone resolve. Perhaps for this reason, we end up using shortcuts, which too often take the form of force. This force is particularly evident where religion is involved.
I don’t claim to be an expert on religion, my own or anyone else’s.What I know is only my personal experience and the experiences that people of my own faith and others have chosen to share with me. I believe that religion is an innate and important part of our humanity and I don’t wish to criticize its existence. However, along with being an enormous asset and source of strength, religion can also be one of our most caustic weapons. With time and fervor religion and dogma begin to take on a life of their own, almost as independent and tangible as that if their creators.
Like all species, religion evolves within an ecosystem. It strikes a balance with the culture, resources, and needs in its environment.Scarce or important resources are sacred. A code of conduct reflects the needs and expectations of the culture and guides the interactions of the community. Stories and lessons of cultural identity are passed on to successive generations.
But what happens when we take this species out of the cultural context in which it developed? If done with knowledge and consciousness, it could adapt and add to the diversity of the area where it is introduced. However, when done with force, it could easily follow in the path of the cane toad in Australia or the zebra mussel in the lakes of Minnesota and become and invasive species that causes a grave imbalance and loss of important resources and heritage. Scarce water or plants that were previously sacred and treated with respect become part of a domain to be dominated and used with little discretion. Respect for elders and traditional wisdom is replaced by a value for the youth and physical ability, and causes upheaval and discontinuity within families.
Of course, the results depend on the disposition and cultural awareness of the people introducing a religion to a new area. As I said, it can be an informative and diversifying experience for everyone involved, but only if done with awareness, tolerance, and a desire from both sides to gain understanding.
One of my favorite pastimes is indulging in a good book or music with a riveting melody or pensive lyrics. As a Peace Corps volunteer in a somewhat rural area in Central America, both of these things are hard to come by (in English) and expensive. I, of course, have my iPod, and the few books that I could fit in my suitcase. The Peace Corps office, much to its credit, also has a library of books (mostly in English) left behind or donated by other volunteers. I am very much appreciative of the opportunity that this affords me, but I have had a hard time finding books that interest me. There is a surplus of romance and mystery novels and a conspicuous absence of classics.So, this past week I downloaded the Barnes and Noble eReader and signed up for an online account on their website. With my download and account, I received a free e-copy of a pocket dictionary and five classic novels (only two of which I have read).
In the past week, I have purchased three more e-books and spent countless minutes browsing online book clubs and digital titles. At first, I was simply excited about cheap and easy access to titles I had been meaning to read for ages (since many of the Barnes and Noble classics collection are available in digital format). However, I have found myself daydreaming about e-book possibilities. With smartphones and data plans, I could avoid ever having to carry a huge purse again! Those who know me know that every purse I buy has to accommodate at least the following: a cell phone, keys, and two pens (black and blue) in a smaller pocket, minimal makeup, planner, journal, and a good book. This kind of technology could mean that a bag would only have to accommodate a smartphone, keys, one pen, and my journal (which doesn’t feel quite the same digital). I may one day become a complete blog convert, but I am sure that the day is far off. I love the feel of writing on paper, and I don’t quite trust my internet connection (or phone battery) to be there every time a thought comes into my head.
This line of thought led me to thinking about a home organizing show I saw once where they put an entire (very large) cd collection onto an external hard drive and got rid of the hard copies. How far are we from doing away with bookshelves, cd collections, and entertainment centers? Will our children carry a Mac notebook in place of a Mead notebook? What does this mean for dating?
To some of you that last question may have seemed discontinuous.Think about it. The books, movies, and cds that a person has tell you an enormous amount about them. What their sense of humor is (Big Chill or Borat?), if they are studious (non-fiction or the 10 minute toilet reader?), and even their political leanings (Ani or Alan Green?).With a move of all media to an external hard drive, evidence would be virtually (no pun intended) inaccessible to observation while they are finding their car keys or changing their shoes. What’s more, how much a person has says almost as much about them as what they have. Personally, I know that the advent of the iPod has meant that my Vengaboys cd from high school has stayed around long past its expiration date.
If the space that an album, book, or movie takes up is only a question of mega bytes on a hard drive (which are increasing exponentially in capacity and decreasing equally in size), will we ever get rid of our outdated media again? Filling a box for the local book sale or reselling old cds is one thing, but what is the motivation to push delete on your online library or iTunes account? Does Moore’s Law mean that we can afford to hoard?
Metallic taste in my mouth, sand between my teeth. Electric red heat flows from my heart to my shoulder blades where razor-tipped wings push beginning to sprout. Tearing.
I walk almost alone past shops. Their neon lights read sweat, blood, and pride sold here. The face confronting mine reads "Give me your purse bitch." What did you expect when globalization has been white- washed across culture?
Tingling pain aches in the base of my stomach. Freezer-burned marbles ingested one by one sharpened on my tongue and spat back out.
A voice on the radio is far too composed. A partly cloudy evening with a high of fifteen. We go now to news of self importance, qualifications and credentials. I cal home looking for sympathy and find instead an argument on modern society. No, Mom, I don't think it's a race thing.
Bones sweat tremble even. A cold hand grips, spreads like spiders' webs and creeps like Jack Frost.
Newspapers are reporting rising crime in the area. But, we don't have enough information to follow up on your case. There are too many in the area that fit that profile.
I want to laugh so hard I cry. Hot salt tears acidic enough to remove graffiti; big black spattered scars that have laid claim to my vitality.
I buttoned my coat sideways today. A little like me, sealed, but the seams don't match.
I'm standing backwards on a bus because there isn't enough room to turn around. Nor do I want to.
Because even if there was room, if there weren't so many people headed to the same place I am. And assuming I wanted to see where I was going instead of where I'd immediately been. I have just plain to much baggage to allow me to turn around.
Such a simple pivot is made amazingly complicated by the weight of the words that i carry in a beach bag by my hip.
There are the planners, and calendars, the interesting bit of plastic I found on the street this morning that I thought might be useful even though I can't imagine what for. And there are the color-coded red-green-blue seven-forty-five-to-half-past-when schedules.
That heap of organization would tumble and bubble pell-mell from the bag by my hip (that matches my jacket and scarf and the cuffs on my mittens that no one can see anyway).
All of my right-angle efforts neatly-filed papers planners and crisp-edged folders risk being defiled on the muddy-boot rivers that run the length of the aisle.
All of it would explode if I were to try to turn around.
So I stand there sandwiched like so much tuna between a man I am sure showers less often than I cut my hair and a woman wearing almost enough perfume to cover him up.
I ponder all of this and I decide I'm fine. In fact, I am perfectly content to watch the green light on the back of the bus inform me that it is now safe to open the door.
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