Thursday, September 22, 2005

Weaving Between Worlds

Thursday, September 22, 2005

In the morning I set off from my fully furnished apartment, complete with cable, hot water whenever I want, microwave, toaster oven, outdoor seating area, washing machine and all the unnecessary comforts. Once I walk out of the house, there is another world that I am headed towards – three metro stops away. Along the way I encounter many who sell all types of things on the metro or in the metro station (CDs, keychains, chocolates, gum, wrenches, raincoats), or who sing or beg for money. It rips at my heart when I see children who as soon as they can walk, do with an older sibling who is maybe seven years old, or with a parent, wander through the metro system begging for money. Starting life like that is inconceivable, a true nightmare to roam the streets all day, hoping to collect a few pesos.

Once I exit the metro at the Acatitla stop in Iztapalapa, I walk down the stairs and about half way down pass by an old woman, head and body wrapped in a blanket, revealing only her leathered, dark, wrinkled face and her hand reaching with fingers curled and palm upwards, waiting for someone to surrender a peso. At the bottom of the stairs I step over a dog who is either sleeping or dead, pass by a couple more and make my way through the space between the few stands of tacos, CDs and magazines. From there I either walk the ten minutes to school or take a “bicitaxi” for a nominal 3 or 4 pesos. A constant presence at the “bicitaxi” stand is a man, a midget, who sits on a scooter with his legs, barely visible except for a bare foot, crossed Indian style below his heavy body. We greet each other with “Buenos días” and if there aren’t any “bicitaxis” already lined up, he reassures me that one will be along shortly. On the way to school, I see cars locked in “cages,” piles of garbage gathered along the curb, homeless dogs wandering and looking for something to nibble – I’ve already named one “Duke” and another “Benji,” who’s the saddest looking dog I’ve ever seen. Sometimes I stop to buy fresh squeezed orange juice from a young man who sits at his stand all day, using an old steel strainer to squeeze at least 6 oranges, each with a lime green colored peel, per order. He strains out the pulp and pours the juice into a clear plastic bag, ties a knot and inserts a straw. I reach the school, knock on the steel door a couple of times and when the window slides open, revealing a familiar face, I say “Buenos días” or “Hola” and the door opens. While everyone says how dangerous this area is, I don’t see it. I know that I am only there during the day but I see a sparse, quiet, poor area that struggles to get by. Most students wake each morning and make their way to school out of habit, rather than with a purpose.

Sometimes I leave Iztapalapa, from the metro line that is as far east as you can go on the system, and travel as far west as the system goes, to reach the Deportivo (JCC). I’ve already expressed how luxurious it is, but more distinguishing is its community atmosphere. There are children all over, surrounded by parents, family and friends, swaddled in towels, and given constant attention, love and praise. That world stands in stark contrast to the one outside its steel white gates.

I was in a “pecero" the other day when we stopped at a light, across from a viaduct where there were three children, each about 2 or 3 years old, covered in dirt and playing. Suddenly, one of the little girls fell down, straight forward and the tiny friends stood looking over her. There was no one to snatch her up, hold her close and tell her it was going to be all right – because it’s not. And then the light turned green and I continued on – towards another world.