There Was a Reason the Cab Driver's Name was Jesus

When I first arrived in Mexico three days ago
it wasn’t much as I had imagined.
Those images in storybooks from my childhood
had made a bigger impression than I’d thought--
bright colors, starry skies, the occasion burro,
smiling people wearing sarapes and sombreros.

The only thing I’ve seen of that are the smiling people
and though they wear jeans instead of serapes and no sombreros,
they are much more beautiful
than the simple drawings I remembered.
Maybe it’s the contrast the their environment that makes them so.
The night skies are dull, not a star in sight.
The streets are dirty, and the houses, packed together like building blocks,
don’t show a lot of care or planning.
Upkeep doesn’t seem to be a priority here.
It’s a dirty and fairly grim place.

I wish we hadn’t exported Burger King or McDonalds
or the unflattering fashions of worn-out jeans and torn tee shirts.
Do their sweet spirits and gentle souls,
or even their fierce warrior traditions
stand a chance in the face of this degrading onslaught?
I have to believe that they do.
The conversation with Jesus, the cab driver, that first day,
the hospitality of my hostess, Paquita,
and the patience of my Spanish teachers,
give me hope.