I Saw My Mother Cry
It sounds like a good title for a Western ballad.
I retain only three memories of seeing my mother cry when we lived in Oaxaca. My mother is a very strong woman. So if tears were shed, we all took note.
The first time, was when she prepared a two year old girl for burial. This emaciated child had received surgery for a brain tumor. After the surgery, she was placed on a bare mattress in "El Hospital Civil" - where tongue-in-cheek - the local population would proclaim, "This is where you go to die." This was the warehouse where the poor were told they would receive care.
At the "Civil", if you needed medication, intravenous fluid, etc. the doctor would give you a prescription and you would purchase all necessary items. Care was minimally (awful). The little girl with the brain tumor perished. But not before the nurses positioned her on her back, on the surgical wound, on a dirty mattress. The mother was inconsolable and unable to function. So my Mom bathed and dressed the child in a new dress for her funeral. She came home and bawled like a cow. She proclaimed that she hated Oaxaca and wanted to return to the United States. We knew the truth. Mom loved Oaxaca. She just hated what Oaxaca did not provide for their people.
Checking a search engine, simply translate what is below to read, "Not much has changed." This is my synoptic translation. wink
El Hospital Civil "Dr. Aurelio Valdivieso" en Oaxaca de Juárez se encuentra en una situación crítica debido a una combinación de falta de insumos, medicamentos, recursos financieros y deterioro de sus instalaciones.
The second time my mother cried will not be shared. Some things are deeply personal and need to remain restricted from public view.
But the third episode with my Mom's copious tears involved a man with a disability. He was a beggar on the streets of Oaxaca. Each day he would place himself in prone position on his little wooden cart, and wrap rags around his hands. Placing a brick in each hand, he would propel himself to the street corner where he supplicated for alms. He was not in possession of his lower extremities. My mother would take him food and check on him. One day, she followed him "home". He moved carefully through a hole in a brick wall which surrounded a large house. The owners, had provided the entrance so that he could reside along the wall of their flower garden. After several years, the man was no longer situated on his corner. My mother waited a few days and then she knocked on the large metal gate of the home. Her friend had died. He was a middle-aged adult who left behind a wooden cart and a couple of bricks. The sum total of his life. It is almost like the story of the "Three Little Pigs" - except this man was no swine, and he had only two bricks - and not a whiff of compassion from his nation.
My mother cried.
I am reminded once again how growing up as the daughter of Protestant missionaries in a state with severe poverty has sculpted my life. Kindness is my strongest suit, my primary response to both the hardships and also the failures of others. How could I be any less, when my parents were so much more?
The video in the link below reminds me of my childhood in Oaxaca. Move to the time stamp of 24:50. The man begins to sing a chorus which is very familiar to me. He is a bit off-key. But I sang this song many times within the churches of Oaxaca.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bhtrHum74Wg
"En la casa de oracion se siente gozo, porque Cristo mora alli, porque Cristo mora alli. En la casa de oracion se siente gozo."
In the house of prayer joy is felt, because Christ dwells there, because Christ dwells there. In the house of prayer, joy is felt."
Across the globe, corrupt governance models continue to bedevil the wretched of the earth. But from this journalist, daily prayers are offered for those less fortunate. And sometimes... the wretched man will sing.
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