Friday, April 06, 2007

Memories of Mexico

One of the things I did this spring while I wasn't doing this was to spend eight days on a service learning adventure with twelve other people (including nine students) in Cholula in the state of Puebla, Mexico. This post is for the people I met there and what they taught me and what they told me and what I felt while I was with them. And how I am changed for all time, I think, by the experience. These are some of my memories of Mexico, in no particular order.

I remember buying water in the airport (having been warned at least one billion times NOT to drink unbottled water in Mexico) and walking out of the shop back to Arturo Ortega (our trip coordinator), realizing that I had zero idea of what my change should look like, showing it to him and saying "Is this right?" Looking back, I realize how frightened and out of my element I was at that point, how pumped with adrenaline, how hyper-vigilent and excited I was, and how green, green, green. Fortunately, this phase passed. Quickly.

I remember riding through Mexico City on a bus I had expected would have crates of live chickens aboard (it didn't) and my eyes were burning. "Why are my eyes burning?" I asked a fellow trip-mate who had spent a good bit of time in the country some years ago. "Because they still use leaded gas," he replied. And that was my first lesson in the cold realities of globalization. Not at all complicated or hard to grasp. Just my supersensitive spoiled-rotten eyes trying to shut to avoid exposure to what they're not used to. And me thinking, "I see..."

I remember arriving at our base of operations in Cholula (a house operated by Community Links, an organization that must surely be the cream de la cream of such outfits, having been in the business for more than fifteen years and deserving of far greater accolades than I could ever provide here); hearing Arturo tell us in no uncertain terms that we are not even to rinse our toothbrush in tap water, that we are not to flush the toilet paper (basket provided next to the toilet), that we are not to flush anything unless "it's" brown ("if it's yellow, let it mellow"--omigod, I thought, shades of the sixties, which pleased me no end for some reason, feeling smug since I'd done this before); that we are to rinse, turn off the water, soap down, then rinse again, rather than let the shower run; and that we should try to keep showers to one per day, if that.

Much later in the week, after getting to know Arturo well enough to trust that he wouldn't think me an ass for asking, I asked, "Would it be possible to make the pipes capable of accepting toilet paper or is there just nothing to be done?" He smiled at me (the over-indulged child) and replied with a kindly, but pointed question, "Why would you want to put paper in the water supply when it isn't necessary?" And I'm caused to think of a paragraph I read years ago describing how people in the U.S. like to flush problems (and problem people) "down the toilet"--much like we went from dealing with our body waste (digging holes, spreading lye, filling it in and moving the outhouse) to disposing of it by sitting on an immaculate white ceramic "throne" and flushing, as though the waste, paper, process or problems never really happened.

I remember standing in the community room at Calpulli de los Ninos in Tlaxcalancingo (a poorer neighborhood in Cholula), where indigenous children learn dances many of their people no longer remember and educational programs are offered to reawaken the mighty spirit of ancient cultures. The wall at the back of the stage in this building deep into Mexico is glorious with the images of Che, Allende, Zapata, La Adelita (the woman warrior), the poet king Nezahualcoyotl, and school-teacher/revolutionary Lucio Cabanas, but Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., as well. I stare at the pictures. I consider the fact that these people know that we are all connected, that all true heroes belong to everyone, something most of us do not realize in the U.S. Imagine, I think, La Adelita on a wall in Tampa. She will be my new advisor, I decide. Along with the others.

I remember listening to Justino telling us the history of his people through Chenelia (one of our trip-mates, a young woman from the Dominican Republic, who steps up to the plate as translator, overwhelmed, but rising to the occasion like a hero herself and quickly becoming comfortable in her unexpected role). He describes how more recently, those with the power have been stealing the land from the indigenous people, buying it when necessary, but often just finessing it away, since indigenous people couldn't originally understand the concept of owning land any more than you might imagine owning your mother. Once they began to organize to keep the land and hired a lawyer, the lawyer was just summarily murdered and now they stand alone, since no one is willing to represent them. Sitting there, in that room, I know that Justino's voice is the voice of his ancestors and that the land is their soul, not just a geographical location, and I wonder if there is really hope for the future of any of us. If the Earth is our Mother and we don't know it, then are we perhaps wandering like orphans, lost and helpless against the forces of evil that would destroy our Mother and leave us without a home?

Later, Justino's wife, Patricia, who has a Master's degree in psychology, explains how they came to establish Calpulli de los Ninos, the word 'calpulli' dating back to Aztec roots meaning 'community organization.' They want to be a bridge for the indigenous poor to return to the land, to remember their former glory, the former ways by which they survived in a paradise of beauty and health and sustainability before the White man came. There are three hundred sixty-five pyramids in Cholula (one--the largest in the world--dates back more than two thousand years). When the Spanish arrived, they enslaved the people they found there and then forced them to build a church on every single pyramid. So now, every night, there are fireworks to scare away the devil so that whichever church in Cholula is holding its festival the following day will not have to worry about that.

Most of the indigenous people are Catholic now, of course, but their weddings are followed by a "dance of the flowers" and another where they "dance with their dinner," bobbing and weaving with vegetables and jugs of drink and chickens not yet plucked and even whole pig carcuses on their way to the coals. They may be Catholic, but their cells remember a different time, a different way, a way that lasted far longer than this latest one. Attending mass on Sunday in a church built by slave labor, worshiping with old brown women who didn't come to my shoulder, I was reminded of a line: "We are known by our scars."

I remember stopping at a little hole-in-the-wall store to buy a bottle of Penafiel Naturel Agua Mineral de Manatial (a sparkling orange-flavored beverage we don't have in Tampa, more's the pity) and then swigging on it while walking down a dusty street behind two little boys with their arms thrown over each other's shoulders, dogs barking wildly as I pass each house, some running into the street to make sure I don't come any closer, some barking down from a roof where they have a better vantage point from which to ward off intruders.

I remember flipping big flat cactus leaves so they'll dry on the other side and then, later, picking a bushel of hand-sized leaves, the tiny spines, no bigger than fine hairs, sticking right through my leather gloves and into the tips of my fingers and thumbs where some of them still are, irritating, painful, reminding me of the activity, like infinitessimal bits of shrapnel that don't intend to go anywhere until they're damned good and ready.

Later, I bought an eye of God decoration to hang over my bed, be-feathered and beautifully painted with ancient designs around a wheel of spokes made of larger cactus spines. I want to remember how badly my back hurt before I finished even one row of flipping leaves. I want to remember how hard it was to coax my fingers to pick the smaller leaves when doing so caused the tiny spines to stab my soft flesh in a hundred tender places. And I want to remember how I felt when they told me that a worker has to pick 5000 leaves to make $150 and I could barely stand to pick 250.

I remember walking down a dirt road between two cactus fields, discussing with remarkable adeptness and a clear understanding, considering our language barrier, the connections between the interests of the political and economic elites in our respective countries and the suffering of the Mexican poor. Two tall and modern buildings, corporate offices sporting air-conditioning and even in-door swimming pools, rose out of the dust directly visible from where we stood. The intention, we were told, is to turn this area, so "wasted" on its indigenous population, into a "safe neighborhood" worthy of those who want--and can afford--the accoutrements of a "better life": golf courses and fine homes, such as some of us have in the U.S. The indigenous, of course, and their cactus fields will have to be brushed aside to wherever they go when a country--or at least its elites--move forward.

We were about to turn back for Calpulli when a woman with impeccable English and the vaguest tinge of Spanish heritage about her came walking out of nowhere.

"Are you just a student group or might you be interested in buying some land?" she started the conversation in an oily voice.

We admitted to being a student group, but welcomed her information and she was glad to give it. From what she told us, the land in that location is very cheap, though she assured us with a wink that it was much cheaper when she and her husband moved into the area from a more urban setting. Needless to say, we were all stunned. Like an object lesson from hell, she carefully presented and represented everything we had just been told about the situation. And suddenly, the military men that seem so liberally sprinkled everywhere with their automatic rifles and even shotguns came into clearer focus and took on, if that's possible, an even more ominous tone.

I remember sitting in a sweat lodge participating in a ceremony conducted by Patricia and Alberto, an Apache with long dark hair and sun ceremony scars on his back and chest. I come out after three hours, staggering, covered with the dirt from the floor of the sweat lodge. At some point during the proceedings, I become unsure that I can bear the ordeal, but Patricia and Alberto give me tea and gently convince me to stay. When I tell Alberto that I'm not steady enough to hold the pipe, he holds it for me. I put a rock next to my heart, thinking I will take it home for my circle of grandfather stones. Later, another rock is in my hand, saying, "Take me." "But what do I do with the one that has already learned my heart beat?" I ask. "You leave it here," came the reply in my head. "You bury it in the soil of this lodge."

I am hungry for knowledge of the ancient ways. I understand them and I am not afraid. I am a bird with a curved beak and sharp eyes. She who sees far.

I remember eating real tacos made of diced pork, tender and cut off a tall rod, like lamb for gyros often is. I remember eating a huge Mexican breakfast cooked excellently and with great love by Arturo's uncle. I remember helping Saude prepare spaghetti and good bread for the team 16,000 feet up a mountain at a silent Hermitage facing Popocatepetl, a volcano continually visible from every vantage point of our trip and continually steaming, too. I remember buying churros (sugar-dusted fried bread sticks) to eat while walking down a street in Atlixco one day, after visiting the city hall where I saw a mural memorializing the workers who died fighting for their rights. I wanted to eat something they would eat, made by hands that were their hands. Then, I bought a candle and lit it in front of Our Lady of Guadalupe, asking whoever was listening to take care of the workers who still fight for their rights and risk dying.

I remember eating mango and strawberry milk and some kind of blue corn drink for breakfast at Delefino's and Tomas' table. I remember eating chiles en Nogada (a poblano chile stuffed with fruit and nuts and covered with a creamy sauce) in Puebla, a modern city that is inching toward Cholula even as we speak and threatens to swallow her and gentrify her and push her people into the desert. And I remember eating Zukaritas (frosted flakes complete with Tony the Tiger) most mornings for breakfast. Except for the Big Breakfast day and the time I ate the leftover dessert somebody dragged home from the marketplace. I decided, what the heck, it was probably more nourishing than the Zukaritas and, at least, it was Mexican.

I remember shoveling manure, a small mountain of manure, some of it brown and dry and some of it green and wet and incredibly strong-smelling, into a pick-up truck. I was not nearly as good at this or as committed to it as the students were, but I did what I could when I wasn't taking a turn at breaking up concrete to lay a fresh slab or sitting on the porch feeling like a humiliated sloth.

At one point, in desperation, I went to Patricia and asked if she had a bandana I could use to cut some of the strength of the odor. She whipped out a green printed square and tied it around my face, whispering, as she did so, "Like a Zapatista." I did my best shoveling after that. In fact, while one of the paintings I brought back is a colorful oil depicting light coming down into a Mexican courtyard, one is a small, stark, black and white painting of a Zapatista's eyes. It was done by an artist that intended to give the proceeds of its sale to the revolutionaries. No, they told the artist, use the money to start an art program for the village children. "The true revolutionary," said Che, "is guided by a great feeling of love."

I remember Delefino's and Tomas' seven-year-old daughter playing the guitar and singing for us and then demonstrating how well she could read. I remember eating meat from their table while they ate noodles. I remember looking at their wedding photos and somehow, communicating with them how beautiful they all were.

I remember waking to the rooster in the morning and descending to Marguerita's kitchen where women of all ages were busy preparing food. Watching them, I felt silly and useless until I saw someone sweeping and volunteered to help. But I couldn't even do that correctly. When I was handed the scoop to pick up the dust from the courtyard, the woman who would have been sweeping instead of me bent down and retrieved two thin plant leaves that had wound up in the pile, returning them to the rest of the leaves the grandfather had brought in from the garden and laid by the kitchen door. The respect she showed in that simple gesture, respect for her grandfather's work, respect for the family that would be serviced in some way by those leaves, respect for the leaves themselves and the Earth that provided them, was something my sped-up, Publix-generated life-style does not begin to reflect, but while I was oblivious before, now I cannot forget.

And lastly, I remember carrying Carlita, Delefino's and Tomas' baby, campesina-style, wrapped over my back in a rebozo, peering out around my right elbow, just as she had peered around her mother's the first time I saw her. Ah, Carlita, will I see you again? Will I know you when I see you again?

I started remembering before the plane crossed the border into Texas. Miguel's face with his sociologist's eyes twinkling at me above his grin. Arturo's knowing smile as he unapologetically hawks the wares of the artisans he supports in Oaxaca and Puebla and Peru. Saude clapping her hands to express the joy that bubbles out of her gentle heart. Arturo's uncle taking my arm whenever I would stumble on a broken bit of sidewalk or start to step out into the street at the wrong time.

My tiny apartment has been revolutionized by the bright colors that followed me home. There is Mexico everywhere I look. And it has drawn more to it. The pillows and dishtowels have become bright with bold stripes. I listen to Arturo's folk songs as I get ready for work in the morning. I teach in the bright yellow blouse and red painted earrings I bought to wear home, like a transplanted flower from a garden far away. And I am most self-consciously, but adamently, wearing the woven bracelet I allowed someone to tie on my wrist while we were still in Cholula.

And there are other changes. For the first time in a while, I've sent some money to my friend in Haiti, the one who feeds the street kids, even if there are thousands of them and they're going to need to eat again tomorrow and I only have so much. I've come up with an idea for a book I could write with Patricia, even though we can barely communicate and neither of us has anything like the time that would be necessary to do it. I've started to feel funny about flushing paper down my own toilet. I've begun to appreciate the greenery around me in a whole new way and wonder how I could spread those trees to Tlaxalancingo. And I'm cooking pork chops with rice and corn for dinner, even though there's nobody here but me. I've slowed down some. I look at things longer. And I share what I've learned as often as I can.

Coming down off the mountain on the hot and bumpy ride back into Cholula, I asked Miguel what the evacuation signs along the road were about. "They're in case the volcano erupts," he responded.

Considering this for a moment, it occurred to me that the silent Hermitage we had just left, where every room is an individual and collective work of art, where statuary and plummeting waterfalls and stained glass abound, has been in a continual process of daily development for nearly thirty years. "But..." I sputtered, incredulous, "couldn't it take the Hermitage with it, if it blew?"

"It could," he agreed.

"Well then, why put thirty years of building into something that could be wiped away at a moment's notice?" I challenged.

"Because it's all just part of life and death..." he said, and I remembered seeing the artisan standing mute at the Hermitage gate as we left. I had picked up a rock to bring home to my circle of grandfather stones and, approaching the gate, I held it up, asking with my eyes if it was okay for me to take it. He nodded, smiling gently. So, now he knows that if Popocatepetl erupts and if it takes the Hermitage, there will be a stone, thousands of miles away, with which to begin a new edificio, a new building, a new place to be on and of the Mother, Earth.

There is no beginning. There is no end. For any of us. Ever. We are One.



sushil yadav said...


In response to your post about your journey to Mexico, Indigenous Culture, Mother Earth and Environmental Crisis I want to post a part from my article which examines the impact of Speed, Overstimulation, Consumerism and Industrialization on our Minds and Environment. Please read.

The link between Mind and Social / Environmental-Issues.

The fast-paced, consumerist lifestyle of Industrial Society is causing exponential rise in psychological problems besides destroying the environment. All issues are interlinked. Our Minds cannot be peaceful when attention-spans are down to nanoseconds, microseconds and milliseconds. Our Minds cannot be peaceful if we destroy Nature.

Industrial Society Destroys Mind and Environment.

Subject : In a fast society slow emotions become extinct.
Subject : A thinking mind cannot feel.
Subject : Scientific/ Industrial/ Financial thinking destroys the planet.
Subject : Environment can never be saved as long as cities exist.

Emotion is what we experience during gaps in our thinking.

If there are no gaps there is no emotion.

Today people are thinking all the time and are mistaking thought (words/ language) for emotion.

When society switches-over from physical work (agriculture) to mental work (scientific/ industrial/ financial/ fast visuals/ fast words ) the speed of thinking keeps on accelerating and the gaps between thinking go on decreasing.

There comes a time when there are almost no gaps.

People become incapable of experiencing/ tolerating gaps.

Emotion ends.

Man becomes machine.

A society that speeds up mentally experiences every mental slowing-down as Depression / Anxiety.

A ( travelling )society that speeds up physically experiences every physical slowing-down as Depression / Anxiety.

A society that entertains itself daily experiences every non-entertaining moment as Depression / Anxiety.

Fast visuals/ words make slow emotions extinct.

Scientific/ Industrial/ Financial thinking destroys emotional circuits.

A fast (large) society cannot feel pain / remorse / empathy.

A fast (large) society will always be cruel to Animals/ Trees/ Air/ Water/ Land and to Itself.

To read the complete article please follow either of these links :




Professor Zero said...

Welcome back!

Anonymous said...

Hi, Change,
I must say, you're looking pretty good for a 250-year-old! Don't look a day over 125!

Anyway, I must confess at the outset that I couldn't make it through the morass of your post about Mexico. I'm sure it's a fascinating place. Lots of history. Unfortunately, it's a country that's extremely rich in natural resources, yet it's controlled by a dozen or so absolutely corrupt families, an oligarchy, if you will. And the worse they run Mexico, oppress and murder the people (and the Mexicans themselves continue to sit idly by and do nothing) the better it is for the oligarchy. You see, those who flee to America send billions back to Mexico in remittance money to prop up the economy. The tune is about $11 billion annually now. Not sure if you mentioned all that good stuff or not.

I was struck by this particular paragraph: ...I asked, "Would it be possible to make the pipes capable of accepting toilet paper or is there just nothing to be done?" He smiled at me (the over-indulged child) and replied with a kindly, but pointed question, "Why would you want to put paper in the water supply when it isn't necessary?" And I'm caused to think of a paragraph I read years ago describing how people in the U.S. like to flush problems (and problem people) "down the toilet"--much like we went from dealing with our body waste (digging holes, spreading lye, filling it in and moving the outhouse) to disposing of it by sitting on an immaculate white ceramic "throne" and flushing, as though the waste, paper, process or problems never really happened.

This is a little confusing. When you say, "problem people being flushed," are you referring to the 1 million + babies, referred to as "problems" or "choices" or "my rights," flushed down our both metaphorical and literal toilets each year? If so, I commend you for taking the stand that even if you aren't sure life begins at conception, you're willing to err on the side of caution and give the nod to a culture of life rather than death. Fortunately, people like you and I recognize that even a human zygote fulfills all the criteria necessary to be called "biological life," those being: cell reproduction, ability to respond to stimuli, and metabolism. After all, what's the bumper sticker say, "If it's not a baby, you're not pregnant"?

As for the phrase, "...and flushing, as though the waste, paper, process or problems never really happened," that might need a little bit of explaining. What "problems" would these be, exactly?
And what's so bad about being so technologically advanced and concerned with a clean environment that we've developed far beyond simply defecating over a hole in the ground and we've even learned how to take raw sewage, sanitize it, recycle it, and even turn it into drinkable water? Are you saying we should return to a more primitive, more polluting nature? I disagree with you if that's the case. I'm a believer in preserving our environment and it's simply a whole lot more beneficial to that environment when we develop the technology to create power (nuclear) and build cars and factories that actually lead the entire world in creating less pollution and cleaning up the messes we make than any all-wise grandfatherly and indulgent-type from Mexico has suggested we do for our common Earth, don't you agree?

No, there's nothing "noble" nor "wise" about keeping your own waste matter close to you and living in it.

One more thing, I noticed several references to Castro's communist henchman thug, Che. Are we talking about the same Che Guevara who said, "Hatred...pushes a human being beyond his natural limitations, making him into an effective, violent, selective and cold-blooded killing machine. This is what our soldiers must become ..."?
The same Che who sent hundreds or even thousands of men before a firing squad without trial in order to instill "public peace"? The same Che who witnesses say shot an 8-year-old boy to death for stealing a loaf of bread? Just wondering if we're talking about the same guy.


Changeseeker said...

I'm choosing to leave this racist, sexist, classist, elitist diatribe posted so that my readers can understand why I have stopped allowing anonymous comments on this blog. Readers may easily see through the non-arguments presented to attack me more than anything else. It is always interesting to note, however, that you can tell what a person is FOR by what they are adamently OPPOSED to. When the United Fruit Company's hired killers burst through the jungle and pointed their guns at Che, it is reported that he said only, "Go ahead and shoot. You are only killing a man."

bill sikes said...

Ah, we seem to be at cross-purposes here, Change!
Perhaps you can point out to me, without the use of hyperbole this time, why my factual, evidential post was "racist, classist, sexist, and elitist."

Is it not true that my country, America, leads the entire world in scientific and technological developments which not only pollute less, but go much further in cleaning up the environmental messes we do make than any other country on the face of the Earth?

Maybe you can take a look at how much a culture like India or China, where seven of the ten most polluted cities in the world can be found according to the World Health Organization, and tell us how wonderful it is for our Earth if we all return to a more primitive nature as that espoused by your wise, old Mexican sage.

Next, what "non-arguments" are you referring to that I'm supposedly making?
And I certainly hope that you CAN tell what I'm for by my speaking against what I oppose. Yes, I'm for letting babies live; yes, I'm for clean water; yes, I'm for technological advancements that allow us to sanitize our waste products rather than living in them; yes, I'm against communism and communists who murder hungry children.
Yes, it most certainly is telling what people are for by listening to what they're against...and by noting whom they lovingly quote.

After reading your profile, my only comment is that I shudder at the thought of our universities, colleges and institutes of "higher learning" are infested with moral relativists such as yourself. Thos who see nothing but evil in good while seeing only good where evil exists.

Changeseeker said...

“Bill”: The U.S., with about 4.5% of the world’s population, consumes 25% of its fossil fuel, 20% of its metals, and 33% of its paper, wasting 48 million tons of food suitable for human consumption annually, and producing more power plant emissions than 146 other nations combined (or about 75% of the world’s population). Each year, U.S. industries belch, pump, and dump more than 2.5 billion pounds of chemical pollution into the air, water, and ground. We produce ¾ of the world’s hazardous waste and transport two million tons of it annually to poor nations that so desperately need the cash that they can’t refuse. This practice has been largely banned in Africa and the Pacific Islands, so we are now shipping it primarily to Central America, mislabeled as “non-toxic” or “to be recycled”. The 2000 maquiladoras (factories set up along the Mexican-U.S. border under NAFTA) have turned the entire strip into an infamous cesspool of toxic waste and sewage, while making money hand over fist for transnational corporations, mostly based here, by exploiting the poverty-stricken Mexican workers. You, I gather, are for the corporations.

On the matter of abortion (not a topic I cover on this blog, but it’s apparently one of your hot-button items), I think it’s important to note that women are presently seeking abortions at approximately the same rate per capita as they did prior to the passage of Roe v. Wade. The difference is that, then, about 10,000 women a year died as a result of botched back-alley procedures (not counting the ones who were accidentally sterilized), while, now, only about 45 per year die of complications. Actually, about 40% of women seeking abortions report themselves to be either “Catholic” or “evangelical Christian,” so the issue is not whether it’s legal or illegal, “morally wrong” or not. In fact, upper class women have always had access to safe and private abortions (called D & C’s for dilation and curettage). The question is whether poorer women should have the same access. Regardless, since the number of families in the U.S. living at under HALF of the Federal Poverty Guideline increased 28% between 2000 and 2004 and we now admit to having at least one out of five of our children living in poverty, this society is hardly demonstrating its commitment, after the fact, to the young you seem so concerned about.

Apparently, you have been captured enough by this blog that you would create an identity just to comment here. My statement of belief as seen here is clear about what I support and do not. You make it equally clear that your stance is precisely the opposite of mine.

Changeseeker said...

Please excuse the glitch that was supposed to be a link to my post entitled "The Changeseeker's Manifesto" just a couple of posts ago.

the artful said...

Ah, glad to see the twin pillars of leftism are alive and well: projection and victimhood. Yes, by all means, let's ignore the fact that, as reported by BusinessWeek, the unregulated growth of Chinese industry (which Al Gore lobbies for exemption from the Kyoto standards, btw), has resulted in some of the worst environmental impact on our world to date. Three decades of communist expansion and industrial development has impacted China enough to account for those 7 out of 10 most polluting cities in the world I mentioned(which you conveniently are willing to overlook if it helps you point the finger at your preferred boogeyman: the United States). And according to the World Bank, that pollution costs China more than $54 billion + annually in environmental damage and health problems.
Some facts you may want to consider: China consumes 4.7 times as much energy as the U.S. to produce each dollar of GDP-- and 11.5 times as much as Japan and the country is getting less efficient, not more, as time goes by. Coal mines operate with zero environmental or safety concerns in order to keep the electricity flowing, near-zero emission controls which lead to all the acid rain, doubled auto emissions, and 80% of their sewage flows untreated into their waterways, while companies would rather pay fines than invest in expensive water-treatment facilities...oh, but let's overlook China because they're a "developing" nation and it wouldn't be "fair" to expect them to adhere to the pollution standards that American leftists are so eager to see their country subjected to...all for some kind of intra-national tax to "level the playing field." After all, is it "fair" that the poor, poor, pitiful Mexicans should be subjected to actually having to clean up their own smog gasp! shock! simply because it drifts into the United States and accounts for up to 30 percent of our nation's ozone? Why,heavens, no! They shouldn't be held accountable at all! After all, if only a couple tens of millions of Americans have to breathe in their waste material, why I'm sure that those dirty, nasty, oppressive capitalists (who build colleges and universities and employ other capitalists who like to pretend they're communists while paying their mortgage, car payment, and buying "organic" food at their local co-op) deserve it!

and we now admit to having at least one out of five of our children living in poverty, this society is hardly demonstrating its commitment, after the fact, to the young you seem so concerned about.
Ah, I see your modus operandi: if they're poor and "society" (not that you're a part of society and are willing to do something other than advocate abortion) makes no "commitment" to the poor, then they may as well be dead. This reminds me of a quote from a Dickens character: 'Well, if they're going to die (the poor), they might as well do it and decrease the surplus population.'
Suffice to say that I'm not surprised someone like you advocates flushing a baby down a toilet as a "choice," but chooses to make a home living on top (it would seem) of her own feces. Quite telling.

Changeseeker said...

Gosh! I wasn't aware we were having a troll party! :^) Enjoy yourselves, boys. I've got no time for you, but, from what I can gather, you're the proof that what I write (and do) is important enough to warrant agitation among those who consider my ideas frightening or dangerous. Ta ta! Busy day!