ARMS THAT AREN’T FOR HUGGING
HELPING HANDS THAT DON’T . . . or perhaps they do
(just not in the manner that I have so come to appreciate)
Words and their meanings
tumble
over
and
over
through space
as I try to get my bearings in this land of mind-altering juxtaposition.
It is the rare place, here, that I do not walk among armadas of men and their weaponry: on sidewalks, in train stations, crowding benches in drab colored rovers, caressing machine guns as they stand, walk and wait. The men with guns, it seems, never sleep.
On the opposite end of the gender spectrum, I have learned to attempt to blend into the pods of women clustered together in public places, so that they might go about their daily obligations without having to endure roving hands and suggestive glances. (In fact, Mujeres y Niños have designated spaces in trains and stations, evidenced by indelible signs, barricades, and guards that patrol the perimeters of these de-male-itarized zones.)
Museo Memoria y Tolerancia
Paralleling, yet becoming too soon acclimated to existences that I could not have fathomed two days ago, I am enthralled by the rich art and history of this enchanting place, as well as by the sincerity and generosity of her people. They are passionate in their beliefs and commitments and more than willing to take time to share a story, a jugo, and help the Google-map challenged. The preparedness borne, apparently, of fear, fades into the backdrop of the daily tapestry of Life lived fully.
With a final juxtaposition for this day, I fortify myself for the fascinating work that lies ahead . . . . .
Oaxaca style grasshoppers con café au lait, por favor
