Barefoot in a Cascade of Flowers

When we first moved to Mexico in 1952 poverty was ubiquitous. After years of vaunted programs and progress it is still ubiquitous but not quite in the raw and shocking way it was then.

We lived in las Lomas, then the most exclusive neighbourhood in the city. But on the corner, up the street from us, catty-corner to the new-fangled Sumesa supermarket and various boutique shops, sat a group of homeless leperos pathetically extending their deformed hands, begging. No one thought to move them away.

Americans would come down and say, "How can you stand living next to such poverty?" "Oh," would come the casual reply, "one gets used to it." As if we took turns sleeping on the hard, chill ground... or wherever these miserable people parked themselves when they weren't importuning us, in the name of the Blood of Jesus or his Blessed Mother.

But the truth is, one does get used to it. Humans, no better than dumb, mute animals, will get used to anything especially when that thing requires no effort.

As a not yet five year old I was profoundly disturbed by such scenes and in particular by little boys, just like myself, walking around in rags, barefoot. I would stare at them through the safety glass of the automobile, and wonder what it was like to be so humiliated and defenceless. Shoes were a sign not only of class but of invulnerability, a fact driven home by the more than a few friezes, prints and oil paintings of Cuauhtémoc getting his feet burned before an imperious and impervious Cortez.

What the fuck place had I come to with its exotic fruits, gorgeous skies, refreshingly crisp mornings, languid afternoons graced with cascades of shocking pink bouganvilla?

Cascade of flowers
,
gladness of song.

Above the flowers

the resplendent pheasant
 sings

His song unfurls 
from within the waters.

---Netzahualcoyotl (1402-1450)

But I remained troubled. America's trite, liberal near narcotic post-war "arrangement" didn't quite square with this space I was in.

I had long forgot until many years later my aunt Marguerite reminded me that at Christmas that year someone had sent me five dollars as a gift. That was a lot of pesos.... When asked what I planned to do with the money, I said I wanted to give it away to the poor people. I wanted it turned into 60 silver peso coins which I could then distribute. This was nothing I had read or heard about. We didn't go to church so it was not talked about in some sermon. It was simply a childish impulse born of a disquiet.

My parents thought this was a sweet idea but excessive. One had to be "reasonable" about such things. Just give away a few, no more than 10 and keep the rest for yourself. After all, charity need not inconvenience.

Well... my parents held the strings here. I could hardly go to the bank myself much less downtown where most beggars were. As I recall, I walked around our toney neighbourhood and gave away maybe four or five pesos before giving up. I had learned to be reasonable.

And to get used to it. By the time I left Mexico I was as indifferent to poverty as everyone else. It was the government's responsibility and, after all, what can one do? Yes... we, as well as everyone else, had "our" beggar who came to our door every afternoon for his scraps from our dinner; but that was the extent of our commitment and, most importantly, it was done without feeling. One needs deadness of heart in order to live, right?

And San Francisco or Los Angeles or for that matter anywhere else? How many people in houses there even have their own dinner time beggar? It seems to me that Americans who were so judgemental and appalled have gotten quite "used to it" "Oh," they agonize, "something must be done!" "We need a program." But nothing will get done because the only solution is divestment and no one wants to go around barefoot.

©2019