I took this picture in the bathroom at Gruene Hall, which boasts the oldest dance floor in Texas. I’ve literally danced out of my shoes at Gruene Hall, sung at the top of my lungs, and consumed more beers than I’m comfortable counting. My mom always jokes that we’ll rent it out for my wedding reception one day. It’s a great place, one of my favorite places in the world, I suppose.
But this story is not about Gruene Hall. In fact, the story that goes with this picture happened a long way from Gruene Hall, about as far away from a party spot as you could get, if you want to know the truth. This is a story about being on the edge of things. That’s what this picture reminds me of—that thin edge of reality we all secretly stand on, but want to pretend doesn’t really scare the pants off of us. That thin edge of reality that we get to avoid because we have a little money put back, a job that pays our bills, a family that can bail us out, and friends who keep us sane. That thin edge of reality that reminds us that today, this minute, this situation, and this breath are secretly all that we really, really, really have. That thin edge that is the same edge for you and me and every other person in the whole wide world.
You might remember that I went to Mexico last summer for a week. Hands down, this was one of the most amazing weeks of my entire life. We did hot, sweaty, tiring work. We helped with vacation Bible school, put a new roof on the church sandbox, demolished a house and leveled a lot, and put up a structure for community meals. In the end, we came away with much more than we brought. At least, I came away with more than I brought.
The colonias along the border are famous for their squalor, sort of kingdoms of abject poverty, poor hygienic conditions, and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. The houses in the colonias are barely houses in the way you and I think about living structures. They are sometimes cinderblock, but most frequently corrugated metal and cardboard, shored up with wooden pallets scavenged from where ever they can be found, held together with bailing wire, crooked nails, glue, chicken wire, twist ties from old bread bags, and God knows what else. Some colonias have running water and electricity, or paved roads. Most of them don’t have any kind of amenity you and I would find in our own subdivisions. But they all have a soccer field. And bands of feral children and mangy dogs and wild cats roaming through the streets. The colonias are desperate places to live. Living that close to the bone, living so close to nothing—no safety net, no savings, no nothing, has got to be hard. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like.
I’ve never gone to bed hungry because there was nothing to eat in my house. I’ve never gone to bed being afraid that someone could come in and take everything and everyone I lived with. I’ve never been at the end of my rope, with no place left to go. I’ve never had to get up every morning and wonder how to feed, clothe, and shelter my family. I’ve never watched my child’s face get eaten up by ringworm, or had to bury a child because they got sick from drinking contaminated drinking water. I don’t understand that kind of poverty or that kind of pain. I had the good fortune of being born into a family that had jobs, houses, stuff, etc. As I looked at the faces of the young women in the colonia, some who were my age but looked much older, I marveled at the crap-shoot my good fortune really is. And I tried not to feel guilty.
On the first day of the trip, my job was to help staff the vacation Bible school at the colonia called “Colocio”. This was the “poor” colonia. I thought the hardest part of my day was going to be calling back Spanish phrases I hadn’t used in years, trying to drown out the drone of my Spanish teachers telling me “Rachel, pay attention to your conjugation!”. I was wrong. The hardest part of the day wasn't trying to look past the lice that climbed over the heads and faces of three and four year olds, or trying not to scrape myself on the nails protruding from every hard surface, or dodging rocks in the ground that seemed hell-bent on not letting us sit down, or trying to stay under the sunshade and help glue flowers to papers, or having to remember not to refill my water bottle from the tap. The hardest part of my day was realizing that what I thought I was bringing to Piedras Negras was nothing, in fact.
I came to Mexico thinking that we would be helping out so much by doing what amounted to crowd control and manual labor. That by the end of the week, we would have shown ourselves to be magnanimous people who wanted to help these people better their situation, not the ugly Americans who want to build walls and fences. I imagined that we were going to be heros, in some form or fashion. What I left with, on that first day, was a decidedly different impression. I came to understand that I wasn’t there to build, or staff, or speak. I was there to bear witness, to be present. I was there to hold small children’s hands, kiss their faces, learn their names and tell them mine. There was not one single thing I could do, or be, or give, or teach that was worth anything. But my presence, my willingness to be present and invested, and not look away from the poverty and the mess and the smell but to look right into it, was worth everything. Sometimes, most times, the best thing we can do in any situation is to acknowledge that the situation is there. Not to fix it, or go around it, but to sit and recognize the fact of the matter. That was my job, my real job, anyway.
We were treated like family, by every person we came into contact with, and not just the church people who were hosting us. Every mother of every child, every brother and sister, every little kid, every watermelon vendor, every truck driver with a load of stuff for us treated us like we were family. They smiled, spoke slowly, and thanked us for what we were doing. They thanked us for coming to spend time with them, for playing soccer and teaching them how to jump double-dutch. They thanked us for dancing with them, for raking dirt, for Gatorade, for bothering to be with them. They thanked us for acknowledging them as people. Can you imagine? It was enough to fill my heart to the brim, and break it a little, so it could hold even more.
As we drove out of Colocio on that first day, down a road that was more pot holes than actual road, we passed dwelling after dwelling that seemed to go from bad to worse. We found out that this particular colonia had just been granted running water and electricity four years ago. Some yards had chickens or a small garden. Most had wee little children hiding in whatever shade they could find, waving madly at our big white van. Dogs ran around the van in circles, so the going was slow, sometimes so slow that I just wanted to lay down in the seat, cry and imagine myself away from that place. It’s hard to see something like the colonias and not wish it away. But I stayed sitting up, willing myself to just accept what was in front of me, and not go to the magical beach that lives in my head.
Just before we turned back toward the church to have lunch, we passed a house that looked like it was about ready to fall down. The house just looked stressed out and tired, like the mortar and the cinderblocks had just seen too much and were about to give up the ghost. And up against the fence was this beautiful climbing rose bush, in full flower. I caught my breath at the sight of it, awestruck by the appearance of something so pretty in a place that seemed so bent on being ugly and awful.
I’d like to tell you that my first thought was “Oh, how nice…someone planted a rosebush in their yard, just like home…”. My honest first thought was “Why bother? Why? When you’ve got a dirt yard, and a dirt floor, and have to live with 27 other people and God knows what else in that house, why?” And my second thought was, “ That’s by-God the most hopeful thing I’ve seen in a long time, in a place where hope comes at a high cost.” Who knew such riches lay before me in such a poor, poor place? Who knew that on that knife-edge of life and death, some gentle soul would have the audacity to plant a rosebush, to give color and beauty to a little corner of someplace that so desperately needs it. They gave it to me, as well.
I have thought about that rosebush every single day since I saw it. That rosebush has haunted my thoughts, my dreams, my prayers, and my wishes. It’s easy to get so bogged down in the grind, to see nothing but the dirt and the mess and the cycle that keeps you dirty and messy, whether you live in a ritzy suburb or a colonia.
But this story is not about Gruene Hall. In fact, the story that goes with this picture happened a long way from Gruene Hall, about as far away from a party spot as you could get, if you want to know the truth. This is a story about being on the edge of things. That’s what this picture reminds me of—that thin edge of reality we all secretly stand on, but want to pretend doesn’t really scare the pants off of us. That thin edge of reality that we get to avoid because we have a little money put back, a job that pays our bills, a family that can bail us out, and friends who keep us sane. That thin edge of reality that reminds us that today, this minute, this situation, and this breath are secretly all that we really, really, really have. That thin edge that is the same edge for you and me and every other person in the whole wide world.
You might remember that I went to Mexico last summer for a week. Hands down, this was one of the most amazing weeks of my entire life. We did hot, sweaty, tiring work. We helped with vacation Bible school, put a new roof on the church sandbox, demolished a house and leveled a lot, and put up a structure for community meals. In the end, we came away with much more than we brought. At least, I came away with more than I brought.
The colonias along the border are famous for their squalor, sort of kingdoms of abject poverty, poor hygienic conditions, and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. The houses in the colonias are barely houses in the way you and I think about living structures. They are sometimes cinderblock, but most frequently corrugated metal and cardboard, shored up with wooden pallets scavenged from where ever they can be found, held together with bailing wire, crooked nails, glue, chicken wire, twist ties from old bread bags, and God knows what else. Some colonias have running water and electricity, or paved roads. Most of them don’t have any kind of amenity you and I would find in our own subdivisions. But they all have a soccer field. And bands of feral children and mangy dogs and wild cats roaming through the streets. The colonias are desperate places to live. Living that close to the bone, living so close to nothing—no safety net, no savings, no nothing, has got to be hard. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like.
I’ve never gone to bed hungry because there was nothing to eat in my house. I’ve never gone to bed being afraid that someone could come in and take everything and everyone I lived with. I’ve never been at the end of my rope, with no place left to go. I’ve never had to get up every morning and wonder how to feed, clothe, and shelter my family. I’ve never watched my child’s face get eaten up by ringworm, or had to bury a child because they got sick from drinking contaminated drinking water. I don’t understand that kind of poverty or that kind of pain. I had the good fortune of being born into a family that had jobs, houses, stuff, etc. As I looked at the faces of the young women in the colonia, some who were my age but looked much older, I marveled at the crap-shoot my good fortune really is. And I tried not to feel guilty.
On the first day of the trip, my job was to help staff the vacation Bible school at the colonia called “Colocio”. This was the “poor” colonia. I thought the hardest part of my day was going to be calling back Spanish phrases I hadn’t used in years, trying to drown out the drone of my Spanish teachers telling me “Rachel, pay attention to your conjugation!”. I was wrong. The hardest part of the day wasn't trying to look past the lice that climbed over the heads and faces of three and four year olds, or trying not to scrape myself on the nails protruding from every hard surface, or dodging rocks in the ground that seemed hell-bent on not letting us sit down, or trying to stay under the sunshade and help glue flowers to papers, or having to remember not to refill my water bottle from the tap. The hardest part of my day was realizing that what I thought I was bringing to Piedras Negras was nothing, in fact.
I came to Mexico thinking that we would be helping out so much by doing what amounted to crowd control and manual labor. That by the end of the week, we would have shown ourselves to be magnanimous people who wanted to help these people better their situation, not the ugly Americans who want to build walls and fences. I imagined that we were going to be heros, in some form or fashion. What I left with, on that first day, was a decidedly different impression. I came to understand that I wasn’t there to build, or staff, or speak. I was there to bear witness, to be present. I was there to hold small children’s hands, kiss their faces, learn their names and tell them mine. There was not one single thing I could do, or be, or give, or teach that was worth anything. But my presence, my willingness to be present and invested, and not look away from the poverty and the mess and the smell but to look right into it, was worth everything. Sometimes, most times, the best thing we can do in any situation is to acknowledge that the situation is there. Not to fix it, or go around it, but to sit and recognize the fact of the matter. That was my job, my real job, anyway.
We were treated like family, by every person we came into contact with, and not just the church people who were hosting us. Every mother of every child, every brother and sister, every little kid, every watermelon vendor, every truck driver with a load of stuff for us treated us like we were family. They smiled, spoke slowly, and thanked us for what we were doing. They thanked us for coming to spend time with them, for playing soccer and teaching them how to jump double-dutch. They thanked us for dancing with them, for raking dirt, for Gatorade, for bothering to be with them. They thanked us for acknowledging them as people. Can you imagine? It was enough to fill my heart to the brim, and break it a little, so it could hold even more.
As we drove out of Colocio on that first day, down a road that was more pot holes than actual road, we passed dwelling after dwelling that seemed to go from bad to worse. We found out that this particular colonia had just been granted running water and electricity four years ago. Some yards had chickens or a small garden. Most had wee little children hiding in whatever shade they could find, waving madly at our big white van. Dogs ran around the van in circles, so the going was slow, sometimes so slow that I just wanted to lay down in the seat, cry and imagine myself away from that place. It’s hard to see something like the colonias and not wish it away. But I stayed sitting up, willing myself to just accept what was in front of me, and not go to the magical beach that lives in my head.
Just before we turned back toward the church to have lunch, we passed a house that looked like it was about ready to fall down. The house just looked stressed out and tired, like the mortar and the cinderblocks had just seen too much and were about to give up the ghost. And up against the fence was this beautiful climbing rose bush, in full flower. I caught my breath at the sight of it, awestruck by the appearance of something so pretty in a place that seemed so bent on being ugly and awful.
I’d like to tell you that my first thought was “Oh, how nice…someone planted a rosebush in their yard, just like home…”. My honest first thought was “Why bother? Why? When you’ve got a dirt yard, and a dirt floor, and have to live with 27 other people and God knows what else in that house, why?” And my second thought was, “ That’s by-God the most hopeful thing I’ve seen in a long time, in a place where hope comes at a high cost.” Who knew such riches lay before me in such a poor, poor place? Who knew that on that knife-edge of life and death, some gentle soul would have the audacity to plant a rosebush, to give color and beauty to a little corner of someplace that so desperately needs it. They gave it to me, as well.
I have thought about that rosebush every single day since I saw it. That rosebush has haunted my thoughts, my dreams, my prayers, and my wishes. It’s easy to get so bogged down in the grind, to see nothing but the dirt and the mess and the cycle that keeps you dirty and messy, whether you live in a ritzy suburb or a colonia.
We’re not so different from each other, down at the bottom of everything. Hope comes to us all at a high cost. I’m looking at the yard of my heart with new eyes now, trying to figure out where to plant my rosebush, where to plant that seed of hope, that riot of color that seems to draw your eyes and your heart up and out of where ever it’s been. I want to have the will to plant that rosebush, to tend it, to be comforted by it. I want to shake the hand of the person who planted that brave sign of life and hope in that dusty yard in Mexico and thank them for the gift they gave me on that hot and hard Monday, because hope is worth everything.
mil besos--rmg
