Poor Things

Tell me again something about your country, about your childhood.” Ivana sat down by my side on the dirt floor of her casita. It was my first night in the jungle in northern Guatemala, where I would be living with her family while studying at Eco-Escuela, the Spanish-language school in her pueblo. She looked up at me, her brown eyes filling her face and, to my blue eyes, she looked small for her six years. “Okay, “ I said, and I began my story.

When I was a little girl I lived with my family in Connecticut. My father was a pharmacist and my mother…
No, no, no. Don’t tell me that part again. Tell me where you slept.
Where I slept? I slept in my bed. Okay?
In your bed? You slept alone?
Yes. Alone.
You didn’t sleep with your mama?
No.
Or with your papa?
No. Not with him either.
And your brothers and sisters? Did you sleep with them?
No.
And what about the other children in your pueblo? Did they sleep alone too?
Yes, Ivana, alone.
Pobrecitos!!! Poor things!!! And when you were young, what did you eat?
Hm-m-m…I ate meat and chicken and vegetables…
Did you have chickens in your house?
No, my mother bought them.
Did you have vegetables outside, behind your house?’
No. We bought them canned.
No me digas! Don’t tell me! Vegetables in cans? What a thing! And who did you live with?
My parents and I lived in our house.
And your grandparents?
Oh, my grandfather was very old. He lived with the other old people in an old-age home.
Aye! You slept alone, you ate from a can, your grandpa lived in a old-age home! Aye, Roberta! Why don’t you come live here with me in Guatemala? Your country isn’t civilized! G&S