Thursday, June 08, 2006

A La Merced

“…A tiny storefront clinic, in the middle of nowhere, dispensing little and never enough. An exchange of stories, thousands of them, of lives lived and what is needed. No stump speeches on podia, but the deepest of winding back alleys, where cameras never reach. Not ready-made photo ops or soundbites but simple visits, meant to delight and instruct all parties involved...”

And so it was.

No kleig lights, no microphones, no machetes, no auditorium, no calls for barricade storming nor cries “a morir.” No entourage, no News Bulletins, no Photo Op Albums on the Page. Not even Hermann.

And, yes, the night before last, while the Debate was being ushered forth from on high, some, one at least, from the Other Campaign, slipped quietly, and literally, into one of those back alleys. Paying a call on the ladies and gentlemen of the night, listening, we are told, for more than four hours to Other Stories.

One of the ladies noted that zapatismo says the land belongs to the one who works it, and they say that the street belongs to…the one who works it.

Another said that todos somos the Juarez dead, because we, too are a closed file. Todos somos Atenco, because we also suffer outrages. And todos somos Chiapas, because we are removed from the streets where we earn our living.

“…Not fierce, circumscribed little groups with their “leaders” and manly symbols, but a vast swath of idiosyncratic individuals, accustomed to much and more than schooled in providing hospitality…”

How very nice to know, especially on days like this, that hospitality can be accepted, and the occasional fantasy can indeed come true.

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