World Beginnings

Oh, the irony! This photo was taken at a small market here in Ajijc. Am I the only one whose jaw is gapping? Why aren’t the feminine products next to the diapers? Or the Downy? The Fabreeze? But no! It must have been some man who equates women’s needs with heavy duty cleaners such as Ajax. Or even worse with pest control! There is a subliminal message here that is as old as the ages!

He wasn’t always like this. In the distant foggy past his mom walked him to school, made his lunch, watched him as he made life’s way. Washing clothes clean, folding and placing carefully with mother’s love. Now slumping on a  dead-end corner to nowhere balled up defeated by life demons. No one notices. Two shoes scavenged from trash foul, piled on the street... loosely clinging to his feet. One dingy grey  trainer, bound with dirty tape. One worn out men’s dress shoe no laces to hold them to his aching feet. Such is his broken, mismatched life. So far from his mother’s dreams. Jocotepec, MX , 2018

Bobbie Morgan Livingston was my first cousin and one of my few idols.  My father died when I was ten and we moved from Seattle to a small town of 300 in Mississippi. I was an angry, defiant child in every way and when I was upset I ran away. My dad’s family was a lifesaver for my mother and her five unruly children; there was always room at their tables and hearts. In those days it didn’t take much to set me off running down the farm roads trying to reach the woods to escape the pain. Bobbie’s mom, my Aunt Annie Mae, would call to her to “go catch her and bring her back!” Bobbie and I both were married numerous times, ok, more than two and less than five, which provided endless gossip and speculation at family gatherings. We used to joke that we would put the names and dates of our marriages on the back of our tombstones so that everyone could keep it straight. At the yearly Memorial Service at the family cemetery, we would sit together and we could see distant relatives loo

In Robert Fulgham's book,  All I Ever Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten , one of his lighthearted essays states that we can learn everything about someone by using their bathroom while visiting. Within that personal sanctuary,  secrets are exposed,  from prescription medications, gas relief products, hemorrhoid cream, shampoo preference, and the condition of their nightwear. Secluded in our bathrooms are the most private part of our lives, and Fulgham concludes the essay by saying that guests are no longer allowed to use his private toilet. Over the summer, my sister and I went to several large estate sales in Memphis, and Fulgham's words came back to me with a sad reality. One of the homes was an immaculate two-story mansion filled with antiques and showroom-quality furniture.  The upscale street was jammed with every type of vehicle: luxury SUVs, U-Hauls, and beaters, symbolic of those crowding the house. Immigrants, used furniture dealers, casual shoppers, and gawker

Cairo’s balconies offer peaceful oasis, removed from the chaos of the streets below. Protected in a nest of cool green,  I watch as the micro busses, held together with wire, electrical tape and a prayer, spewing exhaust and waves of workers from a poverty we cannot begin to imagine. Safely hidden, I sip my morning coffee and watch. And they come, sounds of tattered flip-flops and low deep voices waft up. Most in faded gallabeyas, young and old alike. A few young swagger in jeans washed by a mother’s hands in a bucket that she hauled from a community spout. Each carries a plastic bag with a piece baladi bread and some foul for their short lunch under a tree. Hot, sweet tea and cigarettes for sufficing for dessert. No fancy burger or sushi in an air-conditioned cafe. Every day of their life. And yet they laugh. They come to wash our fruit and vegetables that they will only taste if over ripe or spoiled. They are the delivery boys on rickety bikes who hoist boxe