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.