I wanted to mention two encounters.
I used to ride my bicycle to work each morning when I lived on the other side of town. In Tenancingo, Mexico we are bathed in and blessed by a favorable climate, perhaps the best kept secret in the world. The altitude (2300 meters) and a latitude of less than 19° combine to avoid extremes of temperature. The benevolent climate supports a culture that lives "outside" much of the time. Hence most human activity is evident. It's like a giant organism turned inside out.
For two years during my morning bike ride I passed a dog. Not that this is special for I passed many dogs. This particular dog, however, a Doberman, had a tick. He's not the only dog with a tick in Tenancingo. Dog ticks seem more common here because canines mostly run free and are often hit by cars. Dogs with patterned spasms bounce and bob like the bold innovative movements of Martha Graham evidenced in uncontrolled jarring, violent, spastic and trembling movements. Few dogs in modern Mexico are regarded as members of the family as in The States. They are either employed as watchdogs paid in meagre scraps that live outside the compound or just considered a nuisance.
There is a historical mexican precedent. Xoloescuincles, a precolumbian hairless breed of dog, were used during various festivities as food and for sacrifice. In ancient Mexico these dogs were regarded for their religious importance, especially at the end of human life accompanying the dead to Mictlán or "Paradise." Imagine being cultivated as a barker, Charon, and a potential "plato fuerte" with beans and corn.
The doberman I passed each morning was always on the sidewalk in front of a house in La Trinidad sporting a moist pink erection. Both his rear legs were canted, one more than the other like worn shock absorbers, so that his whole backside was low as if he wanted to sit down but could not. He steadily and slowly pulsed up and down like a limber dancer,,,,,,, like a hound in the act of love but without a visible partner. He was unable to stop or change position. I can only assume he was the victim of a car accident that has forever left him with this affliction of involuntary movement and a permanent boner. "The Piston" I will call him. He was like some brain damaged people I have seen who rock all day, The Piston moved up and down, up and down, attached to his invisible crankshaft,, his body rocking his way through life. Imagine the curse,,,,,a life of uninterrupted spastic movement. I pitied him but I looked forward to seeing him. He was reliable,, every day in the same place,, like a traffic light,, until one day, his nerves most likely worn to a frazzle, just disappeared.
The other encounter involved girl of about 12 years old named Montserrat who lives behind the hotel. There was something very secret and sad about her. I never saw her smile. She passed the hotel each day on her way to school and we exchanged greetings. One day she was crying. She opened up and told me her estranged father had come home and was beating both her and her mother.
The news of beatings disturbed me I admit, but I knew I was helpless. I couldn't comfort her. There is no hotline to call, and knowing her mother, if I stuck my nose into such a situation it would have been bitten off. One glaring characteristic about Latin America is the desperation that comes with the knowledge that you are on your own. Perhaps that explains a lot.
One other day she passed the hotel, as always in her school uniform, but this time heading towards home, not the proper direction at 9:00 in the morning. Montserrat, said I, how come you are not in school? She told me that the teacher sent her home because her shoes were not properly polished. I looked down and saw her shoes were worn and scuffed. Even her uniform was not as well kept as others in the neighborhood. She said goodbye, this meloncholy little castaway, and shuffled off slowly towards just another place she didn't want to be,, home. Home or school, six of one, half dozen of the other. I watched her discursive path until she turned the corner. I empathized for a minute.
It seemed sending a child home for such a petty thing as being poor is an awful thing to do to yet Mexico is drenched in these situations,, way too many and one can only bleed so much. Perhaps only to protect myself from impotency, self imposed or not, I began considering the value of dress codes.
Two years passed and I saw Montserrat again, this time with a blank stare and a baby in her arms. There were home made tattoos on her fingers. I said buenas dias but she didn't respond.
I used to ride my bicycle to work each morning when I lived on the other side of town. In Tenancingo, Mexico we are bathed in and blessed by a favorable climate, perhaps the best kept secret in the world. The altitude (2300 meters) and a latitude of less than 19° combine to avoid extremes of temperature. The benevolent climate supports a culture that lives "outside" much of the time. Hence most human activity is evident. It's like a giant organism turned inside out.
For two years during my morning bike ride I passed a dog. Not that this is special for I passed many dogs. This particular dog, however, a Doberman, had a tick. He's not the only dog with a tick in Tenancingo. Dog ticks seem more common here because canines mostly run free and are often hit by cars. Dogs with patterned spasms bounce and bob like the bold innovative movements of Martha Graham evidenced in uncontrolled jarring, violent, spastic and trembling movements. Few dogs in modern Mexico are regarded as members of the family as in The States. They are either employed as watchdogs paid in meagre scraps that live outside the compound or just considered a nuisance.
There is a historical mexican precedent. Xoloescuincles, a precolumbian hairless breed of dog, were used during various festivities as food and for sacrifice. In ancient Mexico these dogs were regarded for their religious importance, especially at the end of human life accompanying the dead to Mictlán or "Paradise." Imagine being cultivated as a barker, Charon, and a potential "plato fuerte" with beans and corn.
The doberman I passed each morning was always on the sidewalk in front of a house in La Trinidad sporting a moist pink erection. Both his rear legs were canted, one more than the other like worn shock absorbers, so that his whole backside was low as if he wanted to sit down but could not. He steadily and slowly pulsed up and down like a limber dancer,,,,,,, like a hound in the act of love but without a visible partner. He was unable to stop or change position. I can only assume he was the victim of a car accident that has forever left him with this affliction of involuntary movement and a permanent boner. "The Piston" I will call him. He was like some brain damaged people I have seen who rock all day, The Piston moved up and down, up and down, attached to his invisible crankshaft,, his body rocking his way through life. Imagine the curse,,,,,a life of uninterrupted spastic movement. I pitied him but I looked forward to seeing him. He was reliable,, every day in the same place,, like a traffic light,, until one day, his nerves most likely worn to a frazzle, just disappeared.
The other encounter involved girl of about 12 years old named Montserrat who lives behind the hotel. There was something very secret and sad about her. I never saw her smile. She passed the hotel each day on her way to school and we exchanged greetings. One day she was crying. She opened up and told me her estranged father had come home and was beating both her and her mother.
The news of beatings disturbed me I admit, but I knew I was helpless. I couldn't comfort her. There is no hotline to call, and knowing her mother, if I stuck my nose into such a situation it would have been bitten off. One glaring characteristic about Latin America is the desperation that comes with the knowledge that you are on your own. Perhaps that explains a lot.
One other day she passed the hotel, as always in her school uniform, but this time heading towards home, not the proper direction at 9:00 in the morning. Montserrat, said I, how come you are not in school? She told me that the teacher sent her home because her shoes were not properly polished. I looked down and saw her shoes were worn and scuffed. Even her uniform was not as well kept as others in the neighborhood. She said goodbye, this meloncholy little castaway, and shuffled off slowly towards just another place she didn't want to be,, home. Home or school, six of one, half dozen of the other. I watched her discursive path until she turned the corner. I empathized for a minute.
It seemed sending a child home for such a petty thing as being poor is an awful thing to do to yet Mexico is drenched in these situations,, way too many and one can only bleed so much. Perhaps only to protect myself from impotency, self imposed or not, I began considering the value of dress codes.
Two years passed and I saw Montserrat again, this time with a blank stare and a baby in her arms. There were home made tattoos on her fingers. I said buenas dias but she didn't respond.
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