Something is happening here. In a world of drunken arguments, fist fights over stolen hearts, and eating stolen bread. Where mouths scream until the sun shows light. Each one in a box. Children sleeping on dirty floors, running down rural roads and loving in ramshackle, subsidized housing units with neighborhoods named after European saints. Following the same dim line of some idealistic European societal guide lines.
What is happening? Our only plan is to try to understand. Our only civil strategy is to hope and catch up.
I thought keeping up was something I needed to do. The need outweighed the lesson I was supposed to be learning. I guess stolen bread tastes so much more sweet once you forget the work behind lifting the piece. The taste was only worth its value if nothing kept you from just that first bite. Because all the work in the world didn’t feel worth the pain of being tired and lonely. Native people are almost never entirely alone.
The drunks have a warm enough bed. The abused mothers have a kitchen stalked full of surplus governmental food. A widowed father has his beer and the next ex under his arms, and the messy children have a family they know as complete. It’s a whirl wind of tragedy and work that almost always goes unnoticed.