(entry way of my "Cuban Family's" home)
6 year old: "The stapler is broke again."
me: "Did you try hitting it just a little bit?"
You know what is really comical, though? I used to think I was poor; I really thought that. I thought I was poor because we had thrift store Christmases sometimes. I thought I was poor because I was one of the few kids who had the special free lunch ticket. We lived in a trailer, and when we didn't, we were moving all the time. Didn't get braces. Went to the sliding scale clinic. I thought I was poor. I was poor, and others around me were rich.
Somehow, I reveled in this, starting pretty young. Our minds will do what they can to organize social ambiguity into something seemingly emotionally reliable. Pride. I felt proud not to care I was "poor," to be brave enough to invite my friends from beautiful homes into my little trailer. A humility which was it's own form of arrogance, somehow; I reveled in our differentness.
(happy accident in the ghettoasis)
My identification, my egoic hat if you will, hanging carefully on the hook of the deeper things in life, or so I thought. One more illusory division, or really, a failure to accept the illusory nature of our differences...whether I shop at a thrift store, or you have hair extensions...whether I read Vonnegut, or you read magazines...whether you volunteer your time with children, and I spend my time on myself...We are made of the same stuff. Somehow, I the best description I have for said stuff is: compassion. Peel the onion. Peel it. There is no core; that is a myth. Inside, is emptyness...pure potential...sameness....love.
I didn't always know this. I thought I did. Peel on, another layer. Lose count. The futility of being careful. Shed tear; the stinging, cleansing inevitability.
And then I met Invalvis, one lovely day in Havana. With her, once again, I met my own naivety.
More to come...
p.s. Then, I did not know this. And even knowing it now isn't enough; I feel this internal drive to see it, live amongst it. It just is.
