Speculation

Turtle in patio of Spanish school

Tonight, in a flight of fancy, I speculate: How would I be different if I were Nicaraguan?

First off, if I were Nicaraguan I’d have darker skin and hair.

In Postville, Stephen Bloom remarks how strangely ubiquitous white skin is in that tiny Iowa town. In my town, too. In fact, surrounded by such whiteness, I sometimes catch myself thinking of white skin as “normal” and all other skin colors as “different”—not better or worse, just  “different."

Others, more cosmopolitan than I, tell me my orientation is a subtle form of racisim. Sigh. . . If I had darker skin, would I still see myself as normal—and all others as different? Perhaps.

If I were Nicaraguan, I would be more observant. Or I’d be dead.

At home on flat sidewalks and quiet streets, I can survive as my absent-minded self, thinking more than seeing. Marlo says a mechanical roadrunner lurks near every corner, ready to whiz past, beep-beeping all the way. Amid the uncovered sidewalk manholes, their poles, and changing levels; amid the motorcycles, horses, cars, and trucks inches just inches away, I need constant vigilance.

If I were Nicaraguan, I would be less modest. When temperatures rise, hemlines follow. And necklines fall. Not even the turtles here have turtlenecks.

If I were Nicaraguan, I’d be more relaxed. Heat, humidity, and sun are an all-day massage.

In a land of perpetual summer, I would not suffer winter blues.

I would spend more time with friends.

I would wait well.

I would laugh more.

I am not Nicaraguan.

But in this week my shell has already softened. My center has already shifted.

Year after year, that shift calls me south.

I know. I know. Saying “yes” to the still small voice provides no guarantees.

But, at times, it does come with fringe benefits.