So the first thing I bought after getting back to the land of “flushing toilet paper in the toilet” (FTPT). Turned out not to a pedicure as I wanted, but a yoga class which I needed. While it’s sad that I generally have to go away, or be forced apart in order to get back to myself- I’m done being surprised by the fact. This time I went running and screaming and crying to Honduras under the guise of helping others- to remember myself.
Suffice it to say that I spent 200$ on data roaming charges and got on Gmail 3 times. It was worth it. But I was hardly likely to update my blog under those conditions so I went back to the old school notebook. Red- spiral bound, and I don’t even think it was college-ruled but there it was. Now it’s all damp and bent out of shape in my bag but I’m feeling the pull away from this computer and back to pen and paper already. Since the beginning of that journal actually started the first time I went to Honduras- I felt it apropos to start there, at the first beginning. Names and some experiences have been left out but the gist of it all is about me anyway. And there’s alot to read to make up for the slow updating since february. I feel like I’m stretching out my fingers again. My pinkies were hurting in down dog at yoga class today. Messed my vinyasa all up. But that’s ok- Don’t need those suckers to write anyway.
ho boy- I had to go through a whole lot of paper before I got to something I could put out there for the public. I recall that I was going through a break up that 1st time (seems to be a trend :/).
(my “gringoness” and all, ascribing less importance to the name of a country, a people perhaps (unless ofcourse this wa a name given. Given to a place by a people not of that place because guns, or flags, or money gave them the power of discourse-like I just did))
(to be on the safe (PC, self-righteous, enlightened/conscious) side)
Today we arrived. Among the missionaries and business men and tourists. We’re a bit of all three I suppose: too rich. It took me so long to write that because I don’t think of myself as rich. It’s like I don’t want to write myself into that “us” that is Western and American and Rich. Not to say that I am at all in a position of power within that culture and the microcosm that is America. I don’t discount, or forget my esteemed place of paradoxical outside beauty: being both female and black. But here the stark contrasts generated by abject poverty obscure the finer details of subjugation and disenfranchisement. Here I am rich (thank God) and I’m not quite sure what to say about it.