December 3, 2004
Dear Friends,
Today I saw Jennifer Isabel again, she is so cute—eight
months old, black curly hair, black eyes. Today she was intently
studying her hands as she lay on a foam pad her mother had carefully
placed on the ground beside her “store.” Jennifer’s
mother has a “tiendecita,” a little roadside stand
from which she sells oranges, packages of chips, and Pepsi. Every
day, around 6:00 or 6:30 in the morning, Jennifer and her mother
and usually one or two of her big brothers walk from their home,
which is a tin shack not too far away, to their store. They have
a little peeler machine with a hand crack that takes the peel
off the oranges, then each orange is sliced in half and a little
salt and chili powder is placed between the two halves (you can
ask for oranges without the chili powder), and two oranges are
placed in a plastic bag. People waiting for the bus buy a bag,
young boys take the bags onto the buses and sell them, and I buy
my oranges there when I go to buy the morning newspaper. That
is how I first met Jennifer Isabel. I am captivated by her smile,
her interest in her hands. I am also captivated by Jennifer because
she was born three weeks after the birth of my great nephew, Benjamin
Arthur, whom I have seen only in photos. I look at Jennifer, and
think of Benjamin. I think about the huge gulf that separates
their lives. I am sure that Benjamin has his own room, complete
with a crib, toys, and clothes, gifts from a loving family. His
parents both work, and when they were having difficulty locating
adequate day care for Benjamin, his father considered quitting
his job so he could stay home and care for him. |
