tall trees filter the afternoon sun warming some and shadowing others. we sit in a circle with the multicolored park in front, the garden to the right and the fish pond behind. a little bit farther down, we would be on pancho's grave, dug a week ago for the old horse who fell one day and couldn't get back up.
a la zaptilla por de atras
tris tras
ni la ves ni la veràs
tris tras
that is what we sing as one student encircles us with shoe in hand ready to leave it behind another who will then run trying to catch the first. then we sing:
raton que pìa al gato
raton que te va a pìar
si no te pìa esta noche
mañana te piarà
the older students, in oversized blue denim shirts weave through the swings and around us. they carry old rice bags over their shoulders filled with chicken dung. the muddy substance trickles out of the pourous bags as they scurry from chicken coup to garden and back again to refill. some stop to watch the little ones light with song in the chase of children. some sing along.
blanca, tall and thin, almost a woman with a timid elegance stands to run behind elio. the yellow rays softly illuminate her smile and her care to stand with a straight skirt. i see her framed in innocence, not that of a child to be protected, but that of a young woman who has been protected too much. like the others, her eyes look out wondering, yet they look up and then down. she smiles, then quickly covers it with her hand.
even now as she runs around the circle she bends low at the shoulders. maybe she runs that way; maybe she is trying to not seem so big amongst the first graders. she is, older then most of the students in blue. she has come to us only this year and at any moment i sense her father might call her home to marry.
blanca, despite her longer legs doesn't reach elio before he slides safely into her position in the circle. it is her turn to walk and choose some one. she encircles us twice fidgiting with the shoe in hand. she hides her giggle and sets the shoe behind edwin, the little boy who in class nudges her arm, looks at her paper, takes her eraser, pulls her hair. she chooses him to chase her, and we sing:
raton que pìa al gato
raton que te va a pìar
si no te pìa esta noche
mañana te piarà
miércoles, 19 de marzo de 2008
sábado, 8 de marzo de 2008
what falls
much wind, still no rain. what falls
is a scorpion from the roof of my classroom. El Pato was up there
sweeping off the "trash" or what we would call
leaves, when the long black creature
with a curled up tail fell
in middle of the chairs. a little to the left
or a little to the the right
it would have fallen on top
of a child. Edwin
quickly had it beneath his shoe and i
quickly had to take over: a couple of slaps
a sweep out the door
back to the letter "S".
is a scorpion from the roof of my classroom. El Pato was up there
sweeping off the "trash" or what we would call
leaves, when the long black creature
with a curled up tail fell
in middle of the chairs. a little to the left
or a little to the the right
it would have fallen on top
of a child. Edwin
quickly had it beneath his shoe and i
quickly had to take over: a couple of slaps
a sweep out the door
back to the letter "S".
the breakfast table
Yesterday at breakfast around the long blue table on the porch, we shared our individual nights to understand the walls we share. Oh, that was you Esther clapping in the middle of the night? asked Paloma.
Yes, because of the rat. I woke up hearing the rat gnawing at my bed post. And if he continued the bed would have fallen and he would have gnawed at me. Esther and I share a room, and I remember vaguely waking up at some point and asking how she knew it was a rat. Apparently I advised her to bang on the bed or the wall which I did as well, then sleep, deep sleep. Until the alarm that sounded at 4:45 on the other side of the wall. Luna thought it was Barbara's alarm, but Barbara couldn’t find her alarm because it wasn’t hers it was Luna’s that had shaken the house in her innocent attempt to wake up early to write the letter to the parents advising them of the doctor and dentist and dermatologist that will be coming next week. 13 letters written by hand. But after the alarm I couldn’t sleep. The orientadora of the little girls was shouting their names and their corresponding daily chores and the reggaeton was already blaring in the darkness before the sun.
Well, I killed the rat, Flori commented as she spooned up her granola and apple.
How big was it? How did you kill it?
A small one. About this big. It went behind the current and I grabbed it and squeezed.
Eeewww....ooohhh, the table erupted and the children took a break form their chores of sweeping the jungle floor to observe the foreign teachers roar with disgust and disbelief as we imagined this short stout woman squeeze life between her fingers.
sábado, 1 de marzo de 2008
in a country where...
in a country where water is coca-cola and refresco is water, where leaves are called trash, i shouldn't be surprised.
esta semana muriò pancho el caballo solitario, solitario desde el huracan de un año del pasado. se muriò ahogado por el culo, segun los televidentes del animal planet. desde la mañana habìa estado volcando por el suelo, con dolores de estomago y por la tarde se habìa caido en el largito de peces. en el rectangulo que cavaron, no cabìa. hay fotos de un hombre brincando en el hoyo rectàngular encima del caballo muerto, haciendole caber. asi lo hacen, me decia boris, un niño de quinto, asi lo hacian tambien por rio frio cuando unos borrachos habìan matado a un caballo por haberlo amarrado demasiado apretado. hay que quebrar las piernas para que quepa. ¿y no pueden hacer el hoyo màs grande?
y los medicos americanos venieron en lunes y martes. y la enfermera de guate cuidad llegò para analyzar la caca en botes de gerber que no se podìa tapar despues de esterilizarlos en agua herviendo. lo normal: amaebas, lombrices, gripe, infecciones de orina, hiv. y los que no habìan cagado en botes fueron avisado a las 10 de la mañana en jueves que tenìan que cargar antes de las 12. por suerte juan pudo, saida cagò un lombric, ronaldo corriò a su casa por su bote, y los demàs....a la clinica para doblarse boca abajo sobre mis piernas para...pues una manguita por el culo...no pasa nada no pasa nada. claro, los dos muchachos màs machos, volvieron ser los màs lloronas.
y en jueves durante la hora del almeurzo sentados en la mesa de los maestros vimos llegar y pasar por la muelle principal los ricos, los evangelicos, y los de la coca-cola. los ricos en un yate sin camisas hicieron un tour como si fueron dueños del sitio. los evangelicos juntaron a los niños en el comedor y oraron por ellos, luego vinieron a la clasa de los maestros para orar por nosotros, pues ellos, porque nosotras huimos. y los de la coca-cola, lo màs normal, vienen a trabajar cambiando botellas vacìas por botellas llenas de agua negra.
y por viernes, no el viernes pasado cuando llegò la chica de brisas ya partiendo en la lancha, pero este viernes de ayer, cuando cuatro trabajadores llegaron borrachos en lancha a la hora de salida de la escuela. uno, don tocho, algunos lo llaman papa, vomitando, desmayando. otro vomitando y miando encima de simismo. y por la noche el papa con una barriga de pelota, fue encontrado abajo de la oficina a las orillas del rio, desnudo. y jesus, el taxista de madrid, gritando a los niños, no hay nada que ver, nada que ver, al cuarto , a dormir.
y si has olvidado, el sitio es un orfanato y cada sito un pueblo y cada persona un mundo.
hay momentos en casa guatemala cuando pienso que nosotros como seres humanos, estamos jodidos. y otros momentos cuando todo flue milagrosamente y pienso que solamente tiene que tener fe.
todavìa no entiendo.
esta semana muriò pancho el caballo solitario, solitario desde el huracan de un año del pasado. se muriò ahogado por el culo, segun los televidentes del animal planet. desde la mañana habìa estado volcando por el suelo, con dolores de estomago y por la tarde se habìa caido en el largito de peces. en el rectangulo que cavaron, no cabìa. hay fotos de un hombre brincando en el hoyo rectàngular encima del caballo muerto, haciendole caber. asi lo hacen, me decia boris, un niño de quinto, asi lo hacian tambien por rio frio cuando unos borrachos habìan matado a un caballo por haberlo amarrado demasiado apretado. hay que quebrar las piernas para que quepa. ¿y no pueden hacer el hoyo màs grande?
y los medicos americanos venieron en lunes y martes. y la enfermera de guate cuidad llegò para analyzar la caca en botes de gerber que no se podìa tapar despues de esterilizarlos en agua herviendo. lo normal: amaebas, lombrices, gripe, infecciones de orina, hiv. y los que no habìan cagado en botes fueron avisado a las 10 de la mañana en jueves que tenìan que cargar antes de las 12. por suerte juan pudo, saida cagò un lombric, ronaldo corriò a su casa por su bote, y los demàs....a la clinica para doblarse boca abajo sobre mis piernas para...pues una manguita por el culo...no pasa nada no pasa nada. claro, los dos muchachos màs machos, volvieron ser los màs lloronas.
y en jueves durante la hora del almeurzo sentados en la mesa de los maestros vimos llegar y pasar por la muelle principal los ricos, los evangelicos, y los de la coca-cola. los ricos en un yate sin camisas hicieron un tour como si fueron dueños del sitio. los evangelicos juntaron a los niños en el comedor y oraron por ellos, luego vinieron a la clasa de los maestros para orar por nosotros, pues ellos, porque nosotras huimos. y los de la coca-cola, lo màs normal, vienen a trabajar cambiando botellas vacìas por botellas llenas de agua negra.
y por viernes, no el viernes pasado cuando llegò la chica de brisas ya partiendo en la lancha, pero este viernes de ayer, cuando cuatro trabajadores llegaron borrachos en lancha a la hora de salida de la escuela. uno, don tocho, algunos lo llaman papa, vomitando, desmayando. otro vomitando y miando encima de simismo. y por la noche el papa con una barriga de pelota, fue encontrado abajo de la oficina a las orillas del rio, desnudo. y jesus, el taxista de madrid, gritando a los niños, no hay nada que ver, nada que ver, al cuarto , a dormir.
y si has olvidado, el sitio es un orfanato y cada sito un pueblo y cada persona un mundo.
hay momentos en casa guatemala cuando pienso que nosotros como seres humanos, estamos jodidos. y otros momentos cuando todo flue milagrosamente y pienso que solamente tiene que tener fe.
todavìa no entiendo.
images that hang in my mind
She licks her fingers as she makes my tostadas de frijol, Q1 each. I don't mind. It seems natural, as if I were in her kitchen watching her prepare us both a snack with her cat scurrying between her feet and then mine.
Yesterday, I watched a blond haired Montana boy climb off the bar stool and into his speed boat making his way down river to his home of three years: a marina inhabited be retired american sailors. I don't know him except that he is a friend of a friend and he speaks little Spanish. He will always remain distant. I have no desire to share a conversation, but as I eyed his braided blond hair, I did wonder about his internal changes. He too has been molded and de-molded by this place.
i try to watch the sunset up river when possible. i walk out to the dock by the clinic and lay down. i prefer to watch it on my side. six months ago, the scene was foriegn. i recognized a peace in the scenery, a beauty: out there. however, i couldn't internalize it. my wish was, is to absorb that scenery, to not have the stillness of the river or the warmth of the colors be untouchable like a painting that hangs on the wall of a museum. drop by drop, the hues and soft curves of the trees and clouds are entering me. in ways i don't yet understand, i am becoming less an observer and more a member, can i say participant? in the play of light and shadows, imperfect circles and rectangles. julio cortàzar writes of a mandala hanging in his insomnia, an image he focuses on while the rest of consiousness hangs off the edges of the table, the bed, the cliff that raises to create that plateu of clarity. maybe the river at sunset is my mandala.
Yesterday, I watched a blond haired Montana boy climb off the bar stool and into his speed boat making his way down river to his home of three years: a marina inhabited be retired american sailors. I don't know him except that he is a friend of a friend and he speaks little Spanish. He will always remain distant. I have no desire to share a conversation, but as I eyed his braided blond hair, I did wonder about his internal changes. He too has been molded and de-molded by this place.
i try to watch the sunset up river when possible. i walk out to the dock by the clinic and lay down. i prefer to watch it on my side. six months ago, the scene was foriegn. i recognized a peace in the scenery, a beauty: out there. however, i couldn't internalize it. my wish was, is to absorb that scenery, to not have the stillness of the river or the warmth of the colors be untouchable like a painting that hangs on the wall of a museum. drop by drop, the hues and soft curves of the trees and clouds are entering me. in ways i don't yet understand, i am becoming less an observer and more a member, can i say participant? in the play of light and shadows, imperfect circles and rectangles. julio cortàzar writes of a mandala hanging in his insomnia, an image he focuses on while the rest of consiousness hangs off the edges of the table, the bed, the cliff that raises to create that plateu of clarity. maybe the river at sunset is my mandala.
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)
