Voices on the Wind Voices of Protest
Letter to President Trump by Wilda Morris Let me tell you about the shuttle driver who picked me up at the airport in Leon, how patiently he waited while I went to the restroom before he drove me to San Miguel de Allende; the posada manager who welcomed me back with a grin and a hug; housekeepers who smiled as they came each day to make my bed and clean my room; the two men I watched as they offered assistance to a woman struggling up the stairs to a church door; the restaurant owner remembered me from last year, greeted me as a friend; and the street vendor who tied up my package with the stem of a paper flower. I also want you know about the Mexican soul-sister who shares my love of poetry, how she met me for breakfast at the little café where they put a sprig of lavender in each cup of coffee; the man who refused a tip for taking photos of our group on my iPad; and the crew who swept up the detritus of New Year’s Eve festivities in the Jardin where couples danced to the music before watching fireworks; and the three men on horseback—one black, one brown, one white— masquerading as sovereigns on Three Kings Day, men who dismounted and—like Santa—took eager children on their laps and listened to their wishes. Had you been there, you might have seen fathers and grandfathers pushing strollers; or carrying toddlers on their shoulders, enjoying sunny afternoons in the park. You could have met the Mexicans in the restaurant where the San Miguel Poetry Week participants celebrated their last night together, the Mexicans ones who mixed in with poets from four countries as we sang and danced to mariachi music. And I must mention the man who translated a sign in the airport for me, because I couldn’t figure out the Spanish, and the Mexican man who chatted with me on the flight from Leon to Mexico City as we shared memories of the University of Illinois, where we both got our PhDs. For two weeks in January I mixed with Mexicans (these and many more), not a bad hombre among them.